


Just a Wish

by TheFutureUnseen



Category: The 100 (TV), The Princess Switch (2018)
Genre: Baking Competition, Christmas, F/F, F/M, Fluff, Holiday Rom-Com, Humor, Mistaken Identity, Parent Trap vibes, The Princess Switch AU, Undercover, the clexa/bellarke fic that no one asked for
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-01
Updated: 2018-12-24
Packaged: 2019-09-05 04:30:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 62,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16803667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheFutureUnseen/pseuds/TheFutureUnseen
Summary: “You want me to teach you to be normal?” Clarke frowns, glancing between Eliza and Raven. “I think you’re being a little too hard on yourself.”The duchess laughs, “No, I want you to switch places with me.”“Excuse me?”“Just for a few days!”“Ummm, what?”“I want—”“No, I heard you the first time,” Clarke waves her hand. “I’m just reassessing my evaluation of your sanity.”When Clarke Griffin — a type-A planner and renowned pastry chef from Chicago — takes a spontaneous trip to Polis at the suggestion of her best friend and sous chef, Bellamy Blake, she finds herself completely unprepared for what follows. While preparing for the Christmas Baking Competition, Clarke stumbles across a woman who looksexactlylike her.Elizabeth Kane, the free-spirited Duchess of Arkadia, is tied by duty. She wants nothing more than to experience ‘normal’ life before signing herself away in an arranged marriage to the Queen of Polis, Alexandra Kom Trikru. When the two identical women agree to switch places for the week, chaos ensues and both get much more than they bargained for.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> You’ll recognize stuff from the movie if you’ve seen it - this is basically a ‘novelization’ except with The 100. I've tried to personalize it to fit our favorite characters more closely :)
> 
> Please note that the fictional character Elizabeth/Eliza is not supposed to be EJT. I'll write a longer author's note when I post the second chapter. 
> 
> _Disclaimer:_ I don't own any rights to either The 100 or The Princess Switch. I'm just a fan.

**_  
Chicago, USA - December 15th 2018_ _\- 1:00 PM CST_**

A sharp, biting gust of wind floods the Dropship Bakery; the frigid air blows through the open door, carrying with it a flurry of snow before it is firmly cut off by the new arrival. Clarke barely gives the tinkling of the shop bell a second thought as she carefully places the chocolate Santa Claus atop his festive cake. Fox would no doubt be at the register — they’d had a steady line of customers since noon.

Clarke steps back to admire her creation, blonde head cocked to the side. But before she can appraise the cake properly, a deliberate cough rings out from behind her. “Any sugar cookies for your favorite goddaughter?”

Clarke whirls around with a grin. “Madi!”

The brown-haired child slides under the counter and throws her arms around the blonde, squeezing Clarke so tightly that she thinks she might suffocate. “What are you doing here, sweetheart?”

“I got out of dance early and thought I’d surprise you!”

“Did you walk all the way here?”

“Well I didn’t hitch-hike.”

“There is _that_ , I guess.”

“It’s only a couple of blocks, Clarke.”

“I know!” Clarke laughs as Madi props her small chin against Clarke’s stomach and looks up with those big brown eyes. “Geez, you sound like Bell when you talk like that.”

“Where is my dad?”

“Probably in the back,” Clarke indicates with her head.

“And my sugar cookie?”

“Madi Blake, don’t act like you don’t know exactly where we keep the broken cookies.”

The child grins and spins away with a skip. Clarke turns back to the cake, scratching an itch on her hairline with the back of her sleeve just as her best friend pokes his head out from the shop’s office. Bellamy always has had a sixth sense when it comes to his daughter.

“Hey there, gremlin,” he chuckles in his deep timbre, crossing the shop to ruffle his daughters mop of hair. “Only one, okay?”

Clarke snorts, “I think she’s eaten three already.”

“Clarke!” Madi cries indignantly.

“Sorry, kid.”

Bellamy shakes his head even as his daughter tugs at his shirt sleeve, whispering, _“C’mon, dad.”_

“Nope.”

“One more?”

“Negative.”

“Just—”

Bellamy lifts the girl upside down in one quick motion. Madi lets out a shrieking giggle as he carries her over to Clarke where the woman stands beside her cake. “Why don’t you help Clarke, huh?”

“She’s already finished,” Madi complains, sticking out her tongue at the pair.

Clarke crosses her arms. “It’s almost perfect, but…”

The cake is shaped into a classic farmhouse and decorated with green, red, and gold fondant. Santa and his horde of reindeer perch atop the roof while the jolly man sits frozen in the midst of waving at a small gathering of chocolate children below. It’s one of her best yet, but Clarke still isn’t happy with it. It needs something else… An idea strikes Clarke, bringing a smile to her face. She spins toward her workbench and then freezes, eyes scanning the table. The edible white glitter is not where she left it.

“Looking for this?”

Clarke turns around to find Bellamy holding the bottle, a wry grin stretched across his face. She rolls her eyes and snatches the glitter, stepping forward to dust it over the top of her creation. “It’s like you’re reading my mind. I don’t know how you do that,” she says with a shake of her head.

“It’s why you keep me around,” he nudges her shoulder when she has finished sprinkling the decoration. “I’m the best ‘sous chef’ you could ask for.”

Clarke snorts, “And your my best friend.”

Bellamy crosses his arms, grinning at her sideways. She shoves him back and laughs, sinking into his side as he wraps an arm around her. A small cough echoes from behind the two adults — the same deliberate _‘eh-hem’_ from before, a habit which Madi has no doubt picked up from Octavia. The noise brings the two around, twisting to look at the small devil. Sure enough, Madi has her eyebrows raised knowingly. With that same look in her eyes that always means mischief. Clarke sticks out her tongue at the girl, making the child laugh. 

She loves Madi like the kid is her own. Sometimes when Clarke looks at the pair of them, at Madi and Bellamy, she wonder if it wouldn’t just make sense. If _they_ wouldn’t just make sense. As a family. _Her and Bellamy._ They’d been friends for so long and she really did love him. She had been there for him when Gina died, been there to help raise Madi when he’d been so broken that Clarke wasn’t sure if he’d ever recover. And he had been there for her a thousand times over. When she’d been cut up over Finn ending things… which she still is, if she’s honest.

Her heart clenches at the thought. Because she misses Finn. Misses having that person to wake up to, that person to share things with, to get excited over. It would be so easy to have that with Bellamy. It would make sense…. But they have been friends for _so_ long. Whenever there was a moment where Clarke wondered if they might become more, one of them always shied away. And honestly, maybe there was a reason for that. Plus, it would be _Bellamy,_ she reminds herself. And he’s like family. That alone would take as much effort to navigate as it would to simply go on a date with someone new.

“Have you told her?” Madi’s barely whispered question pulls Clarke’s attention back to the bakery.

She glances between the pair, “Told me what?”

“Madi,” Bellamy mutters exasperatedly.

“Just tell her, dad.”

“Seriously. Tell me what?”

A slight flush paints Bellamy’s brown skin and he shifts his weight. Clarke stares at him expectantly, making her expression more intense until he finally caves, “Okay, so you know that baking competition you’re always going on about?”

“The one in Polis?”

“Yeah.”

“Of course,” Clarke nods. “What about it?”

“Well—”

“Dad entered you into the competition!”

_“What?”_ “Madi!”

“He sent your—”

Bellamy claps a hand over his daughter’s mouth, grinning sheepishly. “Let me tell it, okay?”

_“Mphine,”_ Madi’s muffled agreement comes from behind Bellamy’s hand. A second later he yelps, releasing her, and glares at his daughter-turned-cannibal.

“What did I tell you about biting?” he points a finger at her, but she just smiles prettily.

“Octavia says it builds character.”

“Of course she does,” Bellamy rubs a hand over his face. “Remind me to have a word with your aunt the next time you stay over.” 

“Bellamy,” Clarke urges him.

“Right. Sorry,” he murmurs, returning to the topic at hand. “Anyways, after you and Finn broke up, you were so sad. I wanted to do something to cheer you up. So, I sent in your recipe for raspberry eclairs and a photo to the committee… And they want you! You’re in! Here.”

He pulls out a crimson envelope from his back pocket and hands it to her. Clarke stares skeptically at the letter before opening it.

_Dear Ms. Griffin,_  
_At the behest of the her majesty, Alexandra Kom Trikru I, Queen of Polis, the judging committee is pleased to invite you to compete in the fifty-sixth International Christmas Baking Competition. Please RSVP at your earliest convenience._  
_Sincerely,  
_ _Luna Kom Flokru, Head of the Judging Committee_

“Well…” Clarke sighs. “It’s really sweet.”

“Sweet?”

“Yeah,” she shrugs. “I mean it’s nice to just get into the competition. Even if I can’t go.”

Madi gasps, “What do you mean?”

Bellamy whispers something in the girl’s ear and then follows after Clarke as she heads back to her workbench. She picks up her printed list and begins to scan the To-Dos. There are still so many orders to be completed.

“Of course, you can go, Clarke.”

She shakes her head, “There are _way_ too many things to get done for us to jet off to Polis. We live in Chicago, Bellamy. Polis is halfway around the world. Plus, neither of us have the funds for this kind of trip.”

Bellamy moves around the table to face her, “But that’s just it. They’re paying for everything, Clarke. The airfare. The accommodations. We even have a few days to go sightseeing before the competition starts.”

“I don’t know, Bell,” Clarke crosses her arms. “I just— Christmas was a really important time of year for me and Finn. We were together for five years. I spent every Christmas with his family and… and you know what that meant to me! My mom and I never did anything big when I was growing up. I couldn’t even convince her to have a tree. Not even a fake one. So, no. I don’t want to go. I’m not ready to let go of that tradition.”

“So you’re going to spend Christmas all alone?”

“What? No! I’m—”

“You and Finn broke up. Over six months ago. It’s not going to be the same regardless.” Bellamy’s voice is soft, but Clarke still feels cut by his words. Even if they are true.

“I don’t care.”

“Fine.”

_“Fine.”_

“Good.”

Clarke rolls her eyes at him, but he just pulls her around the bench and into a bear hug. She can feel that familiar stinging warmth seeping into her eyes and she blinks rapidly. Even if no one can see her, Clarke doesn’t want to cry. She didn’t plan to cry today. Not today. And if she can just stick to the plan, complete her list of To-Dos, then everything will be just _fine_.

**  
_Wembley, Polis - December 15th 2018 - 20:00 CET_ **

“Your grace, is there anything I can get for you?”

Elizabeth Kane, Duchess of Arkadia, turns from the floor-length window to glare at her oldest friend. “Raven, how many times have I told you to call me Eliza? I’m not even a proper duchess yet. Or a princess for that matter. So don’t you dare start on any ‘your highness’ business either.”

Raven Reyes chuckles from where she stands in the middle of the gilded bedroom. “Of course, _your grace._ ”

Eliza rolls her eyes and turns back to the window, staring out at the shadowed landscape. In the twilight gloom, the forest surrounding the castle almost glows under the freshly fallen snow. As her eyes search for the obscured horizon, one hand comes up to rest against the silver wishbone pendant around her neck, the only thing Eliza has left of her mother. She sighs and crosses her arms against the sudden chill which permeates her bedchamber despite the the crackling fire.

“I’m told Polis is beautiful in the springtime,” Raven murmurs, coming to stand beside the duchess at the window. “All green hills and rolling pastures.”

Eliza nods, but says nothing. She can feel Raven’s concern fill the room like the aroma of bread. And she doesn’t want that. She doesn’t want her friend to worry. Still, Eliza cannot help how she feels. She’s tried. Countless times over the past three months since they arrived in Polis. This betrothal has been planned for the better part of two years. Eliza has known for a while that it would be her reality. Yet it was not until she set foot in this drafty, old castle that she truly realized how _real_ the engagement was.

A soft knock at the door draws Raven from the window. The brunette crosses the room steadily; only a trained eye would be able to tell that she favors her right knee. Eliza mentally marks that down as another reason she dislikes Polis. The harsh weather has been nothing but trouble for her best friend’s injury. And it certainly had not helped that the country’s infamous snowstorms had started only two weeks after they arrived, trapping them both in the castle to be buried beneath Eliza’s dismal mood.

Raven cracks the door open, pauses, then drops into a formal bow, “Majesty.”

“Has her grace already turned in for the evening?” The low, husky voice of the queen is muffled by the heavy door. Eliza feels her stomach knot and tries to relax as she walks across the brocaded carpet.

“It’s fine, Raven,” Eliza murmurs, switching places with her friend at the door. Raven shoots her a quick smile before moving away. The duchess performs a perfunctory curtsy, “Is there anything I can do for your majesty?”

Alexandra, the reigning monarch of Polis and Eliza’s intended, stands in the hall beyond, still dressed in her crisp navy suit and creamy, chiffon button-up from earlier. The queen’s hands rest lightly in her pockets, shoulders relaxed as she nods in greeting. Eliza frowns.

“Have you only just finished working?”

Another nod. “It was a busy day.”

“Aren’t they all?”

“Some more than others.”

Eliza bites her lip as silence stretches between them. She folds her hands together, “Was there something you needed?”

Alexandra’s eyes graze over her and Eliza cannot tell whether the look is calculating or simply inquisitive. The woman is enigmatic at best.

“Elizabeth—”

“Eliza.”

“Right,” the queen pauses, giving an indulgent if not a little tight smile. “I wanted to express to you how much I enjoyed our game of chess this afternoon.”

“Yes, it was very nice.”

“So you enjoyed it as well?”

“Hmmm,” Eliza bobs her head in affirmation.

Alexandra tilts her own, curious, “More than our other excursion? Than the horseback rides?”

“Oh, no! I enjoy them all… equally.”

“No favorite then?”

Eliza’s brows furrow, “Do you want me to have a favorite?”

“I just thought that if there was one activity you enjoyed more than the rest, we might prioritize it for our… future meetings.”

_Future meetings._ That sounds about as romantic as an old boot. Eliza peers at the woman on the other side of the door, trying to see if there is something there which she has missed in her previous appraisals. There is no overt awkwardness to the Queen, but something in her reserved manner puts Eliza on edge. She never knows quite what to _do_ or what to _say_ when the monarch is around. Though it should be second nature to her, having grown up her whole life around nobility.

“I love riding,” she finally says with a small shrug. “I used to ride competitively. When I was younger.”

“Riding it is, then.” Alexandra smiles and this time there is more warmth to it. Maybe they could have something. With enough time and effort, maybe something could grow between them. Eliza just wishes it didn’t feel so hard. Even after three months, she still might as well be living with a stranger. The queen straightens, “I’ll have Gustus make a plan for when I return.”

“When you return?”

“Did he not tell you? I apologize. Gustus was supposed to have informed you this morning,” Alexandra grimaces and shifts her weight. “Unfortunately, something has come up. I have to fly to Spain for a few days, but I should be back before Christmas.”

“Oh… safe travels then.”

The young queen nods and steps forward. Eliza stiffens, but remains still as Alexandra places a soft kiss on her cheek. She tries to smile wide as the brunette shifts back. She should return the kiss, shouldn’t she? Maybe… but before Eliza can make up her mind the queen is bidding her farewell.

“Goodnight, Elizabe—”

“Eliza,” she reminds her.

_“Eliza.”_

“Goodnight, Alexandra.”

The queen pauses for a moment then offers, “You may call me Lexa.”

“Goodnight then, Lexa.”

“Goodnight.”

Eliza slowly shuts the heavy door, giving the retreating figure of her fiancee another partial smile before it latches shut. She turns and rests her back against the engraved wood. Her fingers rub at the headache forming between her eyes.

“Liza?” Raven’s voice calls from the closet, bringing the duchess from her stupor. The brunette walks back into the bedroom, a nightgown draped over her arm. When she sees Eliza rubbing her forehead, she stills. “What can I do?”

“Nothing,” the blonde shrugs with a grimace. “There’s really nothing you can do.”

“It went well then.” Raven’s dry sarcasm makes Eliza chuckle.

“As well as it ever goes.”

“No progress?”

“I’m not sure how there will ever be progress if all we do is play chess in silence and ride horses ten feet apart from each other.”

Raven frowns, placing the nightgown on the four-poster’s creamy duvet. “But you are attracted to her?”

“Yes. I mean, she is gorgeous,” Eliza flops down beside the sleepwear, ignoring the tight pull of her fitted dress. “I just… she’s so _stoic_. Like some beautiful painting, you know? Something you admire… rather than touch.”

Raven made a sound that she was listening even as she moved around the room. But Eliza didn’t know what else to say. She stared up at the sheer canopy above her bed, wondering how much of the stagnation between her and Alexandra— _Lexa_ was really her own fault. She missed Arkadia. Missed her father. Missed the warm island breeze on her bare skin. She’d never worn so much clothing in her life and felt more like an oversized marshmallow than royalty any time she left the castle grounds.

“When does my father arrive?” Eliza wonders aloud, sitting up to look at Raven.

“The day before Christmas, I believe. I’ll have to check your calendar. He’ll be here a few days before the wedding, regardless.”

“Maybe he’ll bring some sunshine with him,” Eliza mutters.

“Should I send him a memo to pack some in his bag?”

“I’d love to see his face when he reads _that_.”

“Which reminds me,” Raven pulls out a letter from some hidden pocket, the blue Arkadian wax still sealed. “He did send this.”

“Raven! You might have said earlier.” Eliza leaps up to snatch the envelope with eager fingers before settling down on the satin divan at the foot of her bed. Her hands tremble slightly as she rips open the seal.

_Daughter,_  
_I had hoped that your silence meant your visit to Polis was going well. However, Queen Alexandra has reached out with some concern for your happiness. Have you been behaving? I know your wildness often gets the best of you. Do not lose sight of the goal, Elizabeth. Your happiness is a priority. After your duty. It would benefit you to find a way to merge the two._  
_Your father,  
_ _Marcus Kane, Archduke of Arkadia_

The parchment falls from Eliza’s hands as she stands up abruptly. Her eyes sting and she wonders why she missed her father so much in the first place. The distance has made her forget how cold and sparing he can be with his affection. Not that he has ever been the doting father she wanted. But Eliza guesses it’s only fair since she has proved to be just as much of a disappointment.

“What is it, Liza?”

“Nothing,” she laughs sharply. “Just my _duty_.” Eliza bends down to grab the fallen letter and walks across the brocaded carpet to throw the parchment into the flames. She watches the paper ignite and turn to ash behind the grate. “I need to get out of here, Raven.”

“I’ll call for the car.”

“No,” Eliza shakes her head. “I don’t mean for an hour. I mean I need to get out of here. I need to live, to be myself. Just me. Even if only for a day. No responsibilities other than my own. No chaperones or paparazzi or _duty_ . Maybe… maybe if I can experience the simplicity of being me, even just for a moment, I’ll be able to do _this_.”

Raven’s expression is pained, apologetic, “I— I can’t… If there was any way…”

“I know,” Eliza exhales, tucking a piece of her blonde bob behind her ear and staring back at the flames. “I know. It’s a nice thought though.”

_“The best.”_

**_  
Chicago, USA - December 15th 2018_ _\- 6:00 PM CST_**

“Merry Christmas,” Clarke smiles at the Salvation Army volunteer as she places a few dollars from the Dropship’s tip jar into the metal barrel. He responds in kind, wishing her ‘happy holidays,’ but Clarke’s gaze is pulled away as a young man pushes through the glass doors of the department store. She gives the volunteer another quick smile and moves towards the familiar figure, not believing her own eyes. But it’s him. She would recognize his shoulder-length dark hair anywhere.

“Finn?” His name leaves her lips before she can think better of it and the man turns around slowly. His familiar brown eyes crinkle at the side as he sees her. It’s been far too long.

“Clarke?” he laughs, hugging her like they are old friends. “Oh my god. It feels like forever since I’ve seen you.”

She smiles into his jacket, “I know.” And if his hug lingers a little too long, she doesn’t say anything. Clarke only breathes in his familiar scent. The smell of tobacco and licorice. She smiles wider, remembering how she used to hate that he smelled like licorice. Now it makes her eyes water slightly. But she blinks the moisture away before stepping back.

“It’s so good to see you,” she flattens the lapel of his coat which has rumpled from their hug. “How have you been?”

“Good, really good. You?”

“Yeah… Good.” They both ignore the way she paused before speaking. Or maybe she’s the only one that noticed it. Maybe it sounded completely natural to him.

“I miss you,” he says and Clarke feels the breath leave her body. She stares at him and for a moment she can see how the future will go. How he will invite her for a coffee and they will get to chatting. The coffee will turn into dinner and then into drinks at her place. Then they will make love, and by morning the last six months apart will have been forgotten — a far off memory.

Her heart swells as she opens her mouth, “I miss—”

“Oh, there you are honey!”

A beautiful willowy woman pushes through the glass doors and walks up to Finn. She wraps her petite gloved hands around his arm and tilts her head up, waiting. He gives the woman a kiss and tells Clarke her name, but she doesn’t hear it.

The woman smiles sweetly, “Sorry, who are you?”

“Clarke. My name is Clarke. I’m… I’m sure Finn has talked about me before.”

“Hmm,” the woman shakes her head. “Can’t say I remember.”

Finn laughs awkwardly and shrugs by way of an apology. What a fucking shit apology. Clarke clenches her teeth and tries to keep smiling.

“We should go if we don’t want to be late, Finn,” the woman reminds him and Clarke tries not to watch as she strokes Finn’s arm.

“Off in a hurry?” Clarke asks, crossing her arms against the sudden chill. Her voice sounds snappier than she meant it, but she doesn’t really care. Honestly, she doesn’t feel like being nice at this point.

“Yeah,” Finn says slowly. “We have a train to catch.”

“We’re heading to Finn’s parents for the holidays. What about you? Do you have any special Christmas plans?”

_His parents._ He’s taking No Name to his fucking parents’ house. Just like he took Clarke. And they cannot have been dating for more than six months because he hasn’t been single for longer than that. He’s taking her to his parents after only a few months. And after he made such a big deal of it. After he insisted Clarke couldn’t come until they had been dating for over a year. Clarke’s gaze bores into Finn, but he just looks away. _Coward_.

“Umm,” she tries to think. All the cheery, single person things she had planned to do sound so pathetic and lonely to say out loud. She’s not about to admit that she planned to watch Love Actually and eat a pint of Rocky Road by herself. Fuck that. So she says the next thing that comes to her mind. “I’m competing in a big baking competition in Europe. I’m super busy getting ready to leave actually. You’ll have to excuse me. Have fun at Finn’s parents. Say hi to Jim and Kathy for me, won’t you?”

Clarke gives them a jerky wave and stomps off through the snowy sidewalk towards her loft apartment. She pulls off her gloves and curses as her fingers hit the frigid air. Her phone screen lights up with a picture of Madi and Bellamy on the front and she presses the one number in her speed dial besides her mother’s. It rings twice before Bellamy’s voice crackles through the speaker.

_“Yeah?”_

“Pack your bags, Blake,” Clarke says with fiery determination. “We’re going to Polis.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! A big thank you to everyone who commented on the first chapter! It means a lot and makes me happy to know you're interested. I'm having a blast writing this story <3
> 
> As promised, here is a little explanation for the Clarke vs. Eliza thing: I chose the name Elizabeth/Eliza because it’s easy to picture Clarke’s face with that name. I thought it would be harder for the reader to associate a random name like Frankie with Clarke’s face. That said, the character Eliza is not in anyway supposed to be EJT. Clarke Griffin and Elizabeth Kane are written as two different iterations of our beloved bi princess from the show. _Clarke_ in this story embodies the angsty, hard-working, sardonic aspects of TV Clarke while _Eliza_ contains more of the sharp, calculating, rebellious traits of TV Clarke. Hope that makes sense!
> 
> Also, this story is not beta-ed so please forgive any minor errors. I try to read over my own stuff as much as possible, but I am human and occasionally miss a few things.

**_Wembley, Polis - December 19th 2018 - 10:00 CET_  
**

“Are we there yet?” Madi pokes her head over the center console, glancing between Bellamy and Clarke.

“Almost,” the blonde appeases, ruffling Madi’s hair as Bellamy turns the rental car away from the main road.

The landscape outside glistens a brilliant shade of white; almost everything, even the road in places, is covered in a thick layer of powdery snow. And though Clarke is not prone to sentiment, she cannot help but feel that there is something magical about the sight. Quaint, colorful cottages are nestled within frosted pine trees, each house displaying an array of icicles which drip like royal icing from the gables. The vista appears so beautiful and pristine compared to the dirty, city snow of Chicago that it makes Clarke smile and roll down the window. She takes a deep breath of the crisp air and grins back at the two people with her, thankful that she allowed herself to be convinced into coming.

The car slows to a stop outside a little farmhouse, its pale surface almost hidden amongst the landscape. The green wreath on the door and the red ribbons wrapped around the porch keep the cottage from completely disappearing into the backdrop.

“We’re here!” Bellamy calls.

Madi bounds out of the car before the engine has fully died and Clarke rolls out after her, catching up to the girl as she runs up the steps. “It’s like Clara’s house in the nutcracker!”

“If you say so,” Clarke laughs and pulls the keys from her pocket. The two tumble into the house, closely followed by Bellamy with their bags.

“Thanks for your help, ladies,” he comments wryly as he stomps the snow from his boots and sets their luggage inside the door.

“Oops,” Madi giggles.

“Why don’t you carry these upstairs, squirt?”

The child pouts, “Can’t we do that later?”

“Don’t you want to explore the house?” Clarke asks, helping Bellamy drag their bags towards the stairs.

Madi rests her torso over the top of the couch to look at them, “Nope. I wanna explore the village.”

“They _are_ supposed to have a great Christmas fair in the center of town.” Bellamy looks at Clarke.

Madi claps her hands, delighted, “We can buy stockings!”

“I dunno, guys,” Clarke shakes her head even as she pulls a piece of paper from the back pocket of her jeans. “It’s not on our itinerary. And I want to get to the competition set early so we can double check the equipment.”

“Wow,” Madi groans, falling back on the couch limply. “Sound like _so_ much fun.”

“Hey!”

“Madi’s right, Clarke,” Bellamy slips the list from her hand. “Don’t you think you’re being a little…”

“What?”

“…Neurotic?”

_“Excuse me?”_

“You know what I mean,” Bellamy chuckles. “They say life is what happens when you’re busy making other plans.”

“Don’t quote John Lennon at me. That’s playing dirty.”

He grins, “And?”

“You know what they also say? That a goal without a _plan_ is just a wish.”

“C’mon, Clarke. We can go have a little fun and still get to the set early. Plus, the world won’t implode if you don’t follow your list.”

“Ha ha,” Clarke rolls her eyes, but her resolve fades as both Blakes stare at her with those big, doey brown eyes. They really are like human-sized puppies. “Fine,” she mutters, but adds quickly as their faces light up. “Only after we’ve put this crap away! You know my other favorite saying, ‘clean house—”

“—clear head,’” the two intone back, sharing an amused look at Clarke’s predictability.

It only takes twenty minutes for them to put away their luggage and unpack. Then the trio is back in the car and strolling around the town square soon after. And Clarke admits grudgingly that the Blakes were right because the decorations really are something. The whole town of Wembley has been done up for Christmas - fat streamers of red and gold weave over the street and a giant Christmas tree dominates the city center, decorated with ornaments the size of Madi’s face. A variety of vendors have set up booths along the square, selling anything from handmade jewelry to roasted chestnuts.

Clarke smiles as Madi takes off running, the kid’s attention caught by the stage at the far end where a troupe of young ballerinas perform. The blonde pulls her long navy coat tighter and adjusts her baseball cap.

“I gotta—” Bellamy starts, his gaze tracking Madi through the crowd.

Clarke nudges him, “Go. I’ll grab the stockings.”

“Thanks!”

She wanders through the stalls until she finds a display that attracts her attention. The stockings appear to be hand stitched, depicting all different landmarks around Wembley in traditional holiday colors.

“They’re beautiful,” she remarks to the vendor, an elderly man with a wizened face and wiry beard.

“Each one is completely unique,” he assures her. 

“I’ll take these three, please.”

“Wonderful!”

Clarke looks around the square as the man bags up the stockings. A group of rowdy boys run by with snowballs in hand. The blonde chuckles, watching them streak through the crowd and pelt unsuspecting bystanders. “Is it always this festive?” she asks the vendor, gesturing at the surrounding market.

“Wembley is known for its holiday flare,” the old man hands her the bag, “but this year is particularly special because of the royal wedding.”

“Wedding?”

“Our queen is marrying the Duchess of Arkadia this Christmas. Her grace is actually in town at the moment. Touring the set for the International Baking Competition, I believe.”

A little cough rings out and both the old man and Clarke look down. Madi has mysteriously appeared beside her, though Bellamy is nowhere in sight. The child cocks her head and asks the vendor, “Who is the Duchess of… of Arkaaaadia?”

“The duchess is a _very_ fine lady… though she’s a bit camera shy. To be honest, no one really knows what she looks. Though if the rumors are true, she is a great beauty like our queen.”

“And the queen—”

“Madi!” Bellamy’s deep voice cuts off the little girl’s question as he pushes through the crowd. “There you are. How many times have I told you to stay close when we’re in a crowded place?”

“It’s okay, dad,” the girl pats Bellamy’s hand. “I knew you wouldn’t get lost.”

Clarke raises her eyebrows, biting back a laugh, “Where did you go?”

“I watched the dancers! And look what they gave me!” Madi holds out a flyer.

“A summer dance program? Wow, it looks—” Bellamy pauses, grimacing. “Madi, it’s over ten thousand euros. You know we can’t afford something like this.”

“But—”

“No buts. Just facts.”

Clarke pulls the girl into her side, “Come on, Mads. How about we go spy on the secretive duchess? What do you say? Want to catch a glimpse of royalty?”

“A duchess isn’t royalty, Clarke,” Madi states glumly. “Nobility, but not royalty.”

“Wow, you are _just_ as much of a nerd as Bellamy. Why am I not surprised?”

A large black limousine turns the corner as Clarke and Madi step into the street. It’s green flags whip in the wind and catch Clarke’s eye just in time. She steps back swiftly, pulling Madi by her coat. The two stumble into Bellamy’s tall frame right before the sleek car barrels past. Clarke’s heart beats out of her throat and her body flashes hot then cold. She feels something surge up within her and steps back into the road, hitting the end of the car as it goes by.

“Watch where you’re going, asshole!” she shouts after the retreating vehicle, then turns back to Madi. “Are you okay?”

But the child is already fending off Bellamy’s worried hands, “I’m fine, dad.”

Both adults breathe a sigh of relief and flank Madi as they continue to walk through Wembley, keeping a watchful eye while making their way towards the competition set. Bellamy buys Madi a hot chocolate which seems to appease the child a bit. But Clarke knows he is not satisfied. Bellamy is quiet the whole walk and Clarke can tell he is thinking about the summer dance program. He has always wanted to give his daughter the world and to feel incapable of that… Clarke wishes she knew the right words which would cheer him, but no amount of assurance from her could change Bellamy’s mind.

They reach the large building where the competition will be held and find their way inside. Clarke sets Madi the task of counting the baking trays and cake pans so that the girl won’t get any ideas about wandering off. Inventory takes more time then she would like, but after about thirty minutes, Clarke states confidently, “Okay! It’s all here.”

“Check and check,” Bellamy nods towards her flattened list and Clarke rolls her eyes.

“Not this again.”

“You know what they say,” Bellamy grins, “‘ _life goes on regardless’_ …or something like that _._ ”

“You don’t even know the quote!”

“I—”

“It’s Robert Frost, actually.”

Both Bellamy and Clarke twist around to see a tall woman with long brown hair leaning against their work station. They glance at each other, but the woman simply saunters around. She holds a coffee cup in one hand and presents the other to Bellamy.

“ _In three words I can sum up everything I’ve learned about life: it goes on._ The quote is Robert Frost. And I’m Echo,” she smiles in a sharp, feline way. “The competition.”

“Oh,” Bellamy frowns, “well in that case you should meet Clarke. She’s the baker.”

“Hi,” Clarke waves casually. The woman, Echo, only raises her eyebrows before turning back to Bellamy.

“And you are?”

“Her sous chef,” he nods towards Clarke.

“Yes,” she fairly purrs, “I figured. But what’s your name, handsome.”

“It’s Bellamy Blake,” Clarke supplies quickly, trying to hold back her amusement at Bellamy’s disgruntled expression. He’s not eager to prolong this interaction.

“Clarke?” Echo turns towards the blonde. Clarke smiles sweetly. “I look forward to showing you what real artistry in baking looks like.”

“We’ll see, won’t we?”

Echo stares for a moment, then says over her shoulder, “Nice to meet you, Bellamy.” She moves to brush past Clarke, but stumbles slightly… as if she has tripped over something. As if the floor is not made of smooth, _spotless_ concrete. Her paper cup crumples against Clarke’s apron and hot brown liquid spreads across the blue material, causing the blonde to yelp. Echo smirks, “Oops, so sorry.”

Clarke stares down at herself, ignoring the retreating woman to murmur curses at her now stained apron.

Bellamy lets out a noise of disgust, “What a bi—”

“Mean lady?” Madi supplies as she pokes her head up from the other side of the counter.

“Yeah,” he mutters. “That’s exactly what I was going to say.”

“It’s fine,” Clarke sighs, brushing off as much of the liquid as possible. “We have some free time for the next few hours. I’ll just go buy a new one. This stain is definitely not coming out.”

“We’ll come with you.”

Clarke shakes her head, “No, no. Madi doesn’t want to shop for a stupid apron.”

“But—” Bellamy starts.

“You’re always complaining about my schedule, so just enjoy the free time, okay?”

“But—” Madi adds.

Clarke narrows her eyes at the pair, “I’ll meet you back at the house.”

“Fine,” they huff at her. Clarke gives them an amused smile before heading towards the exit.

Madi and Bellamy watch her leave, both leaning against the counter. Bellamy sighs and then Madi repeats the sound, mirroring his posture.

“What?”

The kid glances at Clarke’s retreating figure before looking back at her dad, “Why can’t you and Clarke just be a thing?”

Bellamy laughs and ruffles her hair, “ _Because_ , squirt.”

“Because is not an answer.”

He shrugs his broad shoulders. “Clarke and I have been friends since high school. Almost thirteen years. Don’t you think if sparks were going to fly, it would have happened by now?”

“So you’ve never….”

“Nope.”

“But you could,” Madi insists.

“It’s just not like that between us. She’s a little too bossy… for a person like me, that is! We would drive eachother crazy.”

“People can change!”

“Not that much, squirt,” Bellamy shakes his head and pulls his daughter into a hug. “Not that much.”

**_Wembley, Polis - December 19th 2018 - 12:15 CET_  
**

The car slows to a crawl before the four story building, stopping at last in front of the glass doors. Eliza sighs and runs a hand over her caramel-colored jumpsuit before lowering her Burberry sunglasses.

“Just wait for me around the corner, please,” she orders the driver. “I won’t be more than ten minutes.”

“Yes, your grace.”

She exists the charcoal Audi and walks towards the building’s entrance. Her heels click against the pavement as she steps through the cleared path, avoiding the snow piled on either side. Her attention is so focused on finding secure footing that she doesn’t notice when the door swings open in front of her or look up to see the figure who hurtles through it.

Eliza lets out a loud huff as her body hits a solid wall. Her glasses fly off on impact and she stumbles back a few steps as they clatter to the hard ground. Biting back her irritation, she quickly bends down to retrieve them.

“I’m _so_ sorry!” A voice cries out and Eliza sees a pair of Converse poke into her field of vision and then a different hand reaches for her glasses at the same time. Their heads clack together and Eliza lets out another puffing exhale. She gives up on her shades and straightens, one hand to her aching brow. The troublesome sunglasses are thrust into her free hand only a moment later.

“I’m so sor—” A sharp inhale cuts off the muttered apology.

Eliza finally looks at her would-be attacker and feels her own breath sucked from her throat. The woman standing before her is… is… _her_ . No, not her. But an almost identical copy. The same blue eyes which have stared back from Eliza’s mirror everyday for the past twenty-seven years now widen across from her, in another woman’s face. The same flaxen blonde hair is tied in a low ponytail and much longer than Eliza’s own bob. An absurd baseball cap that says _‘Cubs’_ is pulled low over the woman’s forehead. Eliza rubs the bruise on her scalp, wondering for a moment if she hit her head far harder than she realizes. Then the apparition speaks.

“Who are you?”

Eliza is almost expecting her own voice to come out of the woman’s mouth, but it’s completely different. Lower. Raspy. And distinctly American in cadence.

“Who am I?” Eliza raises her eyebrows, “Who are _you_?”

The woman’s forehead furrows slightly, “Oh, right. Sorry! I’m Clarke. Clarke Griffin.”

Eliza feels her brain turn to sludge for about thirty seconds. She wonders if she has somehow stumbled into a parallel universe like in all those Sci-fi novels she used to read. Then she wonders if her dismal mood has somehow enacted a Christmas Carol and this woman is her reckoning. Finally, Eliza reminds herself that she is nearly thirty years old and those ‘explanations’ defy logic. She clears her throat and smiles, years of breeding taking over.

“It’s nice to meet you, Clarke.”

“You too… Uh…”

“Elizabeth Kane, Duchess of Arkadia.”

Clarke blanches and fidgets awkwardly. “You’re the one marrying the queen.” It’s not a question.

Eliza nods and then flushes as Clarke attempts a clumsy solute that is halfway between a bow and a curtsy. Her mouth begins to move in starts, but Eliza isn’t listening. She’s noticing the distinct difference in their mannerisms. The woman before her is entirely unique no matter how similar they appear. Eliza’s chest relaxes a little at that.

“...so I have to get a new apron,” Clarke is speaking quickly. “And I really wasn’t looking when I pushed through the doors which it totally my fault. Anyways, I am really sorry—”

“It’s fine, truly—”

“—I’m a baker. In the competition. Obviously! I don’t know if I said that… I’m in the competition. Which you obviously know about… your highness.”

“Grace.”

“What?”

“It’s ‘your grace’ not ‘your highness,’…but honestly it really doesn’t matter. Just call me, Eliza.”

The woman named Clarke nods and Eliza feels that surreal deja-vu sweep over her again. It’s uncanny how completely identical they are to each other. Like twins, though Eliza has never had any immediate family besides her father. No siblings. Her mother died in childbirth. It’s always just been her.

An idea strikes Eliza so fast that she inhales sharply and bites her lip to keep from blurting it out. A featherlight fluttering begins in Eliza’s stomach, inflating her spirits until they are higher than they have been in months. But she needs to tread carefully. To not let herself get carried away by some crazy scheme like she so often does. She needs a way to test the efficacy of her insane idea.

“You said you are a baker?” Eliza steps forward, hoping her expression is curious.

“Yeah, I own a shop in Chicago.”

“That’s grand,” Eliza beams. “I’ve actually been looking for a second opinion on my wedding cake, but I haven’t been able to find the right person. Are you available now by any chance? For a consultation?”

“Well, I need to go buy an apron—”

“I’m sure we can supply you with one from the castle,” Eliza insists, guiding Clarke towards the street even as she hails her driver.

“Are you sure? Don’t you need to inspect the set or something?”

“There’s no rush,” Eliza places a reassuring hand on Clarke’s arm and then makes a show of hesitating. “…but if you’re busy, I could always ask someone else?”

“No!” Clarke shakes her head adamantly. “No, no. I’m free. Free as a bird. No plans. It would be an honor to help you with your wedding cake.”

“Brilliant.”

The two women duck into the charcoal sedan and the vehicle speeds off towards the palace. Eliza tries to keep Clarke occupied, asking as many questions as possible. Her doppleganger replies amiably though Eliza can tell the woman is less than comfortable with the personal probing. Yet nothing about Clarke’s past stands out to the duchess. Any hidden connection between them is not something Eliza can uncover on her own. So instead she asks questions and studies the woman’s posture, speech, and mannerisms throughout the entire drive.

When they arrive, Eliza asks the driver to pull around the back. Clarke seems oblivious to the fact that they are using the servants entrance; the woman’s head twists in every direction, looking dazed by the grandiose french-style chateau.

“Just through there,” Eliza gestures towards the door to her chambers and then falls back deliberately. She pretends to fix the strap of her heel as her double rushes past. But before Clarke can even knock, the door swings open. The moment of truth.

“What on earth are you wearing, Liza?” Raven’s dry voice rings out.

Clarke looks stunned, “What?”

“This is pretty far out, even for you. I know you said—”

Eliza straightens quickly and strides up to the pair with a wicked grin. “Raven, meet Clarke. Clarke meet Raven. She’s helping me with my _wedding cake_ dilema.”

Raven’s brown eyes dart back and forth between Eliza and Clarke as the two blondes enter. Eliza catches the brunette’s gaze and raises her eyebrows in a silent request. Raven’s eyes widen as she closes the door and leans against it. “Right. Your _wedding cake_ problem.”

“Mmhmm,” Eliza hums, grinning, and turns around to face Clarke who is admiring the silk divan. “Tea?”

Clarke cocks her head, glancing between the two. “Sure?”

Eliza rings for tea and the three sit down with refreshments. Clarke fidgets and Eliza imagines the woman feels out of place in such a manicured space. Even the teacups are made of such thin porcelain that one uncoordinated sip might shatter a gold-enameled rim. Eliza understands the discomfort well although she has had years to practice dissociating from it.

“So,” Clarke starts after one cautious sip. “How can I help with your cake?”

“Actually, I was hoping you would help me with something else.”

“Other than cake? I’m fairly skilled with all baked goods, but cakes are my specialty. Although—”

“It has nothing to do with your skill as a pastry chef.”

“Oh?”

“I’m sure you’re aware of how… _similar_ we look.”

Clarke snorts, “I’m American, but I’m not an idiot.”

“Of course,” Eliza smiles before continuing. “My life has been planned for me from infancy and, with my wedding a little over a week away, I’ve had no opportunity to just _be_ . To just _live_. Outside of the constraints of my duty.”

“I don’t really see how I can help you there.”

“I want to experience normal life. Get to know the people to whom I’m about to become sovereign over.”

“You want me to teach you to be normal?” Clarke frowns, glancing between Eliza and Raven. “I think you’re being a little too hard on yourself.”

Eliza laughs, “No, I want you to switch places with me.”

_“Excuse me?”_

“Just for a few days!”

“Ummm, _what?”_

“I want—”

“No, I heard you the first time,” Clarke waves her hand. “I’m just reassessing my evaluation of your sanity.”

“Excuse me?” Eliza scoffs even as Raven lets out a sharp cough that sounds almost like a laugh.

“I just mean that although we may look alike, people are bound to notice that _I_ am not _you._ ”

“No one will notice.”

“Even your _fiancé_?”

“Especially my fiancé,” Eliza grimaces. “Even were it not for the fact that the queen is leaving, Alexandra would hardly notice a difference. We spend very little time together as it is and what time we do spend is mostly in silence.”

“Which brings up another issue.”

“Yes?”

“Our accents are different.”

Eliza clears her throat and lowers her voice, speaking in a more monotone way which elongates her vowels. “That won’t be a problem for me.”

Clarke blinks and then shakes her head, “Well, I’m shit with accents.”

“I can help with that,” Raven leans back in her chair.

Eliza can clearly see Clarke’s reticence. The woman is on the verge of refusing. It’s an insane plan after all. Eliza knows it, but still she tries to hold back the desperation in her voice as she asks, “What can I do to make it worth your while?”

Clarke seems to think for a moment. “You wouldn’t happen to know who runs the summer dance program in Wembley, would you?”

“Why?”

“My god-daughter has her heart set on attending, but her dad can’t afford it and neither can I.”

Eliza breathes in, hope filling her lungs. “Consider it done.”

“Really?”

“Truly.”

“Okay.”

“Okay, you’ll do it?”

“Okay. I’ll do it.”

Raven wiggles her eyebrows suggestively, “Let’s get to work then.”

**_The Palace, Outside of Wembley, Polis - December 19th 2018 - 14:00 CET_  
**

Clarke thinks she must be crazy. There’s no other possible explanation for _why_ she would agree to do something so reckless. The very idea that she, a slightly awkward baker from Chicago with a laissez-faire attitude towards fashion, could pretend to be this glamorous socialite is laughable. Without ever mentioning the accent!

Still, she lets herself be dragged out of her chair and into the large bathroom. Her stomach twists into knots when Raven pulls out scissors and begins to attack the length of her hair. She hasn’t cut it in years and the blonde tresses nearly reach her waist. Clarke swallows as the first section falls to the floor, trying to picture Madi’s smile. She reminds herself that it will be worth it in the end. What are twelve inches of hair compared to that smile? What are a few days of hiding in a ridiculously fancy castle if it means she can give Madi something that her and Bellamy could never afford on their own?

So Clarke braces herself and listens to Eliza explain the background of her own family and then the queen’s. Surprisingly, both women are only children. Eliza was raised by her father after her mother died and both of the queen’s parents passed many years ago. Their immediate family trees are simple and it doesn’t take long to memorize the names. By the time Clarke’s hair resembles Eliza’s sleek bob, Raven has begun to explain the fine details of the Arkadian accent. She says it most closely resembles an Australian one since the island nation is off the outback’s southern coast.

“You have an American accent though?” Clarke frowns as she ducks behind a screen to swap clothes with Eliza.

“My parents immigrated when I was young.”

“And you just learned the accent for fun?”

Raven chuckles, “It pays to blend in sometimes.”

Clarke makes a noise of agreement while she finishes zipping up the caramel-colored jumpsuit. She dons the black blazer last and steps out at the same time that Eliza does. The two women look at each other, eyes wide. Eliza’s hair sticks out from under the Cubs hat and Clarke’s magenta shirt and dark wash jeans seem to fit her snuggly enough. Clarke swallows down the strange discomfort of seeing the identical woman wearing her own clothes.

She blinks and shakes her head, “This is fucking _weird_. Pardon my french, but someone had to say it.”

Eliza grins, “Totally weird _and_ brilliant.”

“Shoes,” Raven points at them.

Clarke glances down and lets out a loud snort. Her white Converse look ridiculous, poking out from under the hem of her silk jumpsuit. She kicks off the shoes and holds Raven’s shoulder as she steps into Eliza’s tall pointed black heels. “Good lord, how do you walk?”

“Painful, no? These things are divine though.” Eliza wiggles her toes from inside the Converse as she finishes lacing the shoes up.  
They spend the next few hours reviewing any necessary information. Clarke tries to give a brief overview of her life: being raised by a single mom, meeting Bellamy in high school, her first girlfriend Naya, going to culinary school, opening her own shop, Finn. It’s strangely cathartic to whittle down her life into important moments and when she is finished, she attempts to do the same for Bellamy’s life as well as the history their friendship. Eliza talks briefly about her father and then the few interactions her and Queen Alexandra have had prior to their betrothal. She finishes by describing their last three months together.

“You don’t sound particularly happy to be getting married,” Clarke points out, then bites her cheek at her own bluntness. Eliza’s face twists in surprise.

“It’s just…” the duchess pauses, seeming to search for the right words. “I was never taught that marriage had much to do with happiness. It’s a contract. An obligation and a duty—”

“Sounds pleasant.”

“It’s not that the queen is unpleasant,” Eliza assures her. “She is just _very_ formal.”

“More formal than you? That’s hard to believe.”

Eliza shakes her head with a small smile, “Well, hopefully you won’t have to interact—”

A sharp rap against the door startles all three women. Eliza stands quickly, then looks down at herself in Clarke’s casual attire. Her mouth opens and closes in panic before she calls tightly, “Who is it?”

Silence stretches out and then a low voice from the other side of the door answers, “Lexa.”

_“Who?”_ Clarke mouths at Raven as Eliza’s eyes widen comically. The brunette glances between the two blondes and then pulls Clarke to her feet and towards the door.

“The queen,” Raven murmurs softly in her ear.

Clarke’s response is immediate and involuntary. Her body flashes hot, then cold and she pulls away from Raven, shaking her head. “Are you kidding me?” she hisses. “I’m not ready!”

“Just a moment,” Eliza calls sharply as Raven twists to face Clarke.

“What do you think we should do? Have Liza open the door in your clothing? Tell the queen that she has developed a sudden fascination with American baseball?”

“Yeah, sounds perfect,” Clarke whispers back. 

“No,” Raven insists. “You can do this. Now, remember what I told you. ‘Ah’ goes to ‘eh’ and ‘oh’ has a soft R sound at the end. Got it?”

“Wait!” Eliza spins Clarke around and shoves her large, diamond engagement ring onto Clarke’s left hand.

Raven motions for Eliza to duck behind the far side of the bed, then strides to the door and opens it before Clarke can protest further. The baker’s mouth hangs open and her heart beats out of her chest as she turns to face the entryway. Raven curtsies to the woman before her and then steps aside, one hand signaling that Clarke should do the same.

The blonde swallows and dips low, wobbling slightly on those black death-trap ‘heels.’ She rises and her eyes flick to the woman waiting in the hallway.

The queen is not at all what Clarke imagined. She looks impossibly young for having had sovereign power over a country for the better part of a decade. Alexandra must have barely been twenty when her parents died. Sympathy twists in Clarke’s chest as she gazes at the young monarch, though the queen hardly seems pitiable. Her hair is immaculate, falling in long, honey-brown waves over one shoulder. And the queen’s tailored, slate-gray suit somehow makes her seem both severe and feminine at the same time.

Clarke bites back a nervous laugh and clears her throat. Bowing her head again, she murmurs quietly, “Majesty.”

“May I come in?”

Clarke nods, not trusting her own voice, and then shifts out of the way for the queen to enter. Her eyes catch on the bed as Eliza’s pale head darts out of sight, concealing herself from her fiancé.

The queen frowns, “Is everything alright?”

Clarke smiles and attempts the Arkadian accent, “ _Of course.”_

Raven rolls her eyes from behind the queen and Clarke smile falters even as the monarch’s brow furrows. “Are you sure?”

Clarke coughs, putting one hand to her throat. “I actually have been feeling a bit under the weather. I might be getting a cold.”

“Oh,” Queen Alexandra’s concern deepens. “Shall I call for the castle physician?”

“No, no! It’s really nothing serious.”

Eliza’s head pokes over the bed to spy on them and Clarke narrows her eyes at the duchess. The pale head ducks out of sight again just before the queen turns, green eyes following Clarke’s gaze.

“Is there something wrong with your bed?”

“No!” Clarke laughs and clasps her hands together nervously. “Why would you ask that?”

“It’s just,” the queen frowns and twists around again. “You keep staring at it.”

“I have a lazy eye.”

“What?”

“Not all the time! Only when I’m… _fatigued_ ,” Clarke nods slowly.

“Oh. You never mentioned…”

“Yes, well it’s not something that generally fosters sexual attraction.”

Raven lets out a loud snort that turns quickly into a cough and the queen’s eyebrows rise steadily.

Clarke rushes forward, “I mean, as my _fiancé_ it just never seemed like… well… anyways…” Warmth rushes into Clarke’s cheeks as she blushes furiously. She’s making a fucking mess of this. She tries to smile, “Did you come by for a specific reason, your majesty?”

“Lexa, please.”

“Of course, excuse me. _Lexa_.”

The corners of the queen’s mouth twitch upwards and her hands slip into her pockets. “I simply wanted to ensure that you had everything you needed before I left for Spain.”

“Quite.”

“Good.”

“Smashing.”

Lexa’s lips tilt up again as if she is fighting a smile. Clarke curses herself silently, trying not to blush. “Well,” she gestures towards the door. “I wouldn’t want to keep you from Spain.”

The queen nods and follows Clarke towards the exit. If Lexa notices how Clarke’s legs wobble in her heels, she doesn’t mention it. The blonde uses the door for support and gives a short wave in farewell. What a disaster.

“Wait!” Clarke calls as Lexa turns to leave. “Were you driving through town earlier?”

“I—”

“Not _you_ literally. You have a driver, of course.”

Lexa tilts her head, amused. “Yes, I was.”

“The black limousine with the green flags?”

“That is the only royal car,” the queen chuckles softly.

Clarke’s eyes narrow, but she smiles sweetly, “Do tell your driver to watch out for pedestrians and other road… hazards.”

The queen frowns and opens her mouth as if to respond, but Clarke simply waves again and shuts the door, turning around to lean against it.

Raven looks at her skeptically, “Road hazards? Really?”

“Shut up.” Clarke rolls her eyes and pushes away from the wall.

Eliza pops up from the other side of the bed, grinning. “You were _smashing_.”

“Oh bite me, both of you.”

“Honestly. You were brilliant. I can’t thank you enough, Clarke.”

The baker shrugs, “It’s only for a few days, right? Your fiancé will be gone. Easy peasy. No big deal.”

“So we’re doing this?” Raven glances between the two identical women. “Are you both ready?”

“Without a doubt,” Eliza replies easily and turns to look at the other blonde.

Clarke raises her hands, “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

It takes another few minutes to have everything switched over. They exchange numbers, trade phone cases and Clarke finally gives Eliza her messenger bag with her sightseeing itinerary. The duchess slides on Clarke’s navy jacket and wooly scarf until it feels like Clarke is simply staring in a mirror. 

Eliza heads for the exit, turning at the last moment to say in a flawless American accent, “See you in a few days, your grace.”

The woman winks before she slides through the doorway and off into the castle. Clarke’s stomach somersaults. They really are going through with this. Clarke’s never been much of an actress, but if all goes according to plan, that won’t be a problem. _Just think of it as a holiday,_ she tells herself. _You’re staying at a five star resort. That’s all._ She crosses her arms and glances over at Raven, before turning around the room in a circle. She takes a deep breath and clears her throat again. _Fuck._ What did she just get herself into?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you enjoy this chapter? What are you looking forward to most? Leave a comment below <3 I really love knowing what you think; it gives me fuel to write faster! 
> 
> Also, each chapter is turning out to be far longer than I anticipated. Let me know if you would like them to be broken down into shorter segments. 
> 
> Xx


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another crazy long chapter! This story is running away from me, haha. Enjoy!

**_Rental House, Wembley, Polis - December 19th 2018 - 20:30 CET_**  


The car drops Eliza off at the address Clarke provided. Dusk has fallen on the drive over and now the duchess stands on the shadowed curb, staring at the small farmhouse before her. Lights twinkle along the porch, casting a honey-yellow glow which seems to beckon Eliza inside. Her stomach flutters sweetly and she closes her eyes for a moment to savor the feeling — the freedom.

Snow crunches beneath her Converse as she walks slowly along the driveway and up the stairs. Eliza pauses at the top, peering through the frosted window pane. Although she can only see his back from this angle, she recognizes Bellamy from the pictures Clarke showed her. He is contorted around a Christmas tree with a string of shimmering lights in his hand, weaving the flashing bulbs between the pine bows. Eliza swallows and steps forward, pushing through the door.

“We were wondering where you were,” Bellamy throws over his shoulder without turning, too consumed by his task. Eliza stands at the entry, unsure of what to do. She glances around the space. The living room has a cozy feeling with its plush rug, overstuffed couch, and two enormous armchairs. Holiday music plays softly from some hidden stereo and the smell of gingerbread cookies fills the air. Something tightens inside Eliza’s throat and she finds she has to swallow.

“Clarke?”

“Hmm?” Eliza drags her gaze back to the tree. Bellamy has turned around and he gives her a funny, inquisitive sort of look. Running a hand through his brown hair, he steps around the couch and walks towards her. A smile stretches his tan face, the kind of smile which sets creases around his dark eyes.

“Where’ve you been?”

“Oh,” Eliza laughs with a shrug. “I got lost.”

“In a small town like this?”

“Yeah, there were a lot of things to see,” she nods her head, blue eyes following Bellamy as he comes to stand in front of her. “ _A lot._ ”

“Really?”

“Mmmhmm,” Eliza tries to hum in the same way she heard Clarke do earlier.

“Did you get an apron?”

“What?”

Bellamy chuckles and says again slowly, “An _apron_.”

“Right!” Eliza bumps her forehead with her right hand. “I forgot.”

“You forgot? _You?_ ”

“Well, I couldn’t find one that fit.”

“Clarke,” Bellamy’s expression grows more amused and dubious by the minute. “Aprons are one size fits all.”

_Oh bugger._ Eliza opens her mouth and for a moment nothing comes out. Then, “Of course they are! I meant that I couldn’t find one that fits my style, you know?”

Bellamy’s brows furrow as he looks at her more closely. He steps forward and Eliza’s breath hitches, freezing in her throat as one of his hands comes up to pull at the short hair framing her face. “Did you get a haircut?”

“Yep,” she smiles, trying to ignore the incredulous tone of his voice. “Sure did!”

“Just like that? No planning?”

“Uh-huh.”

“You haven’t cut your hair in _years_.”

Eliza swats his hand away, “I felt like a change, okay?”

Bellamy stares at her for a moment and then shakes his head with a snort, the disbelief falling from his face at her more acerbic tone. “Alright, whatever floats your boat.”

Eliza breathes out a sigh of relief as he turns away. That was _too_ close. “Where’s Madi?” she asks as she steps away from the door.

“She’s already aslee— Hey! What are you doing?”

Eliza freezes, “What?”

Bellamy’s expression is one of mock outrage as he points at her feet. Her Converse are caked in snow and the ice has begun to melt on the wood floor. Eliza rolls her eyes at him and steps back onto the welcome mat to stomp off the powder.

“Don’t roll your eyes at me, Griffin,” Bellamy huffs imperiously, arms crossed. “You made that rule. Now you have to live by it.”

“Such a tyrant,” Eliza mutters as she continues to stomp her feet. She hasn’t been scolded like that since she was in diapers. Honestly.

“ _I’m_ the tyrant? You sure do have a skewed sense of our friendship.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever.”

“Excuse me?”

“Calm down, Bell,” Eliza drawls, trying to nail Clarke’s dry sarcasm. “You’re going to rupture something if you keep freaking out.”

“I’m— What— You—” 

Eliza lets out a small laugh and heads for the stairs. “Night!” she calls over her shoulder and gets a small thrill of satisfaction that he still isn’t able to form sentences by the time she reaches the top of the stairs. She hears an annoyed huff and then a gruffly muttered _‘goodnight,’_ before she tiptoes down the hall and through the door Clarke described to her.

A smile tugs at Eliza’s lips as she throws off her clothes and leaves them scattered around the room. She chuckles and crawls into bed completely naked, sighing contentedly into her pillow. Damn, it feels good to do whatever the hell she wants.

**_The Palace, Outside of Wembley, Polis - December 19th 2018 - 21:30 CET_**  


“You’re sure I can’t get you anything else?”

Clarke looks up from the book she’s reading. “I’m fine, Raven.”

The brunette nods, but hesitates on her way to the door.

“Can I get _you_ anything?” Clarke returns the question. “I mean, are you even okay with this?”

Raven crosses her arms, looking shrewdly at Clarke. “Can I be honest with you?”

“Of course.”

“I’m fucking thrilled.”

_“Really?”_

“Yeah,” Raven breathes out. “Eliza wasn’t born for this lifestyle. And if she gets even an ounce of fresh air from this experience, it’ll be worth it.”

“You say that like money is a burden.”

“It is and it isn’t,” the brunette shrugs. “Eliza wanted to take hip-hop lessons when we were kids, but they made her do ballet. She wanted to study literature at university, but it had to be international relations. She doesn’t have a political bone in her body, but she’s been raised to feel like she’s failing just for not being calculating or cut-throat. She is allowed to fund projects, but not be a part of them. She may be privileged as fuck, but she’s never been able to do what she wants.”

Clarke nods. She thinks she understands even if it’s hard to fully empathize. She grew up with very little and a mother who liked to spend even less. Abby had always been a strict but loving parent and Clarke is grateful for that. Still… she can think of a few times when her life would have been easier with more _resources_.

“You sound protective of her?”

Raven smirks, “She’s my best friend.”

“But you work for her?”

“Doesn’t your friend… What was his name? Bellamy? Doesn’t he work for you?”

“Touché,” Clarke smirks. “Though we work _with_ each other. He owns part of the bakery in Chicago.”

“That’s nice for you. But try being best friends with a duchess. Her time is limited. If I’m her ‘personal assistant,’ the timing becomes irrelevant. Plus, it gives me the freedom and resources to tinker with all my gadgets and gizmos.”

“So you’re fine that I’m taking her place for a few days?”

“Let me put it this way,” Raven tilts her head to the side. “I’d do anything for Liza, so for the next few days, I’ll do anything for you. Yeah?”

“Sounds like a deal,” Clarke smiles at the brunette and Raven gives her a wink, before making her exit.

Clarke stretches her arms overhead, groaning as her back pops. The room suddenly feels massive now that it’s just her. Alone. She glances around and pulls the rose-pink silk of her robe closed, tying it shut over the matching nightgown. It feels strange to be wearing something so fancy to bed, but the soft material whispers over her skin in a seductive, sinful kind of way and, if Clarke is honest, she enjoys it.

She leaves the divan, stretching her legs and taking a cursory circuit of the room. Her eyes slide to the door as if to make sure she is _really_ alone and then a giddy, child-like grin spreads over her face. Her bare feet pad across the brocaded carpet to the bathroom, which she didn’t get to fully appreciate on her first visit. The entire room appears to be hewn from marble — at the center is a large, circular pool with numerous bronze knobs along its perimeter. Clarke turns one and the koi fish statue on the far side of the tub gushes water from its open mouth. A loud snort leaves Clarke and she shakes her head, turning the tap off before continuing to explore. She passes a vanity with an indecent amount of perfume and walks through an archway into yet another room.

Clarke’s eyes widen as her gaze slides over the massive closet before her. The word ‘closet’ doesn’t even do it justice. Eliza basically has a master suite for her clothes. The three walls facing Clarke are lined with suits, blouses, dresses, and gowns — more clothes than one person could hope to wear in a lifetime. And in the center of the room a large bronze hat tree, sculpted to look like an actual _tree_. Clarke picks up a blue and cream colored hat with a large bow. Placing it on her head, she spins to look at herself in the floor-length mirror.

_“Hello darling,”_ she murmurs, exaggerating the Arkadian accent and batting her eyelashes coyly. Her face splits into a grin as she bursts out laughing. “What the actual fuck?” Clarke murmurs to herself as she looks around at the treasure trove. How could anyone get bored of this? But before she can come up with a reasonable answer, a muffled noise catches Clarke’s ears. She frowns, listening. Another soft thud follows. That’s odd.

Clarke retraces her steps to the bedroom, “Raven?”

The sound rings out again, louder this time, and Clarke realizes that someone is knocking on her door. On Eliza’s door. _Right_. Clarke squares her shoulders. She can do this. It’s probably just a maid. Or Raven. Or—

Lexa twists around when Clarke throws open the door. The queen is clearly in the process of leaving, having come to the conclusion that no one was really there.

“Oh,” Clarke breathes out. “Hello.”

Lexa inclines her head in greeting, then falters, freezing. Her mouth parts, green eyes widening as they rake over the blonde. Clarke looks down, but everything is covered. She’s wearing a floor-length nightgown and robe for crying out loud.

“I’m sorry,” Lexa shakes her head. “If this is a bad time—”

“Why would it be a bad time?”

“I— Uh— Well,” the queen clears her throat, shifting her weight. Clarke bites back a smile as she realizes Lexa is flustered. The blonde raises her eyebrows at the monarch and slides one hand up, along the open door to lean against it. Lexa’s gaze follows her movement, mouth still frozen open.

Clarke tilts her head, “Yes?”

“I just… You’re wearing a hat?”

_“What?”_ Clarke straightens, reaching a hand up. Her fingers brush against the brim of the blue-cream hat still sitting atop her head. Oh, sweet Jesus. “Yeah… I mean, yes, I am,” Clarke nods sharply, meeting Lexa’s inquisitive, amused gaze. “It’s actually… a tradition. In Arkadia, that is. You have to wear a hat when drinking tea.”

“Even in your nightgown?”

“Of course. No exceptions. We may be a small country, but we are fastidious.” 

Lexa’s lips pinch together as she nods, but Clarke can tell from the tilt to her mouth that the queen is trying not to smile. And the blonde feels the sudden urge to tease the stuffy monarch.

“You don’t believe me?” Clarke demands, crossing her arms as if she is unreasonably annoyed. She feels a triumphant thrill as Lexa begins to backpedal verbally.

“Of course, I believe you,” the queen’s eyes dart down to where Clarke’s arms brace her chest, before tearing sharply back to her face. Lexa flushes, but her voice remains smooth and light as she continues, “In fact, I would love to join you for tea.”

“Oh,” Clarke fumbles, biting her lip. “Well, I don’t actually have any yet… Raven said she would bring some.” The queen opens her mouth to respond, but Clarke rambles on quickly, fearful that Lexa will offer to wait with her and then discover her bald-faced lie. “Did you come to my room for any particular reason? Other than my fine company, of course. And the potential for an impromptu tea ceremony.”

Lexa smiles at the blonde’s wry humor and it’s the first time Clarke has noticed a true smile sweep across the queen’s face. Not an upward, half tilt of her lips. But an honest, albeit soft grin. Lexa steps forward slightly, lowering her voice even though they are completely alone. “I just wanted to apologize properly… for having to leave. And so close to our wedding. It’s unfair and I’m sorry. If it wasn’t so important, I would reschedule.”

“I understand. Schedules are important. Our lives would fall apart without them.”

Lexa exhales and this time her smile is wider and one of relief, “I completely agree.”

“You know what they say,” Clarke leans forward conspiratorially, lowering her voice as Lexa had done. “A goal without a plan—

“—is only a wish,” Lexa nods. “Antoine de Saint-Exupéry. The—”

“The Little Prince! It’s one of my favorites.”

“Mine too.”

Clarke smiles and rests her head against the door. Lexa looks down at her, eyes flicking across her face. And it’s only then that Clarke becomes aware of their proximity. How they stand mere inches apart as if their bodies have slowly gravitated towards one another. Lexa leans forward fractionally and Clarke’s heart rate spikes.

“Safe travels, then,” Clarke offers quickly.

Lexa straightens, “Thank you for understanding, Eliza.”

Clarke blinks. “Right. Of course. It’s no problem.” She bobs a quick curtsy, her toes like ice cubes against the floor, and murmurs goodnight before slipping back through the doorway. She lets out long sigh when the door latches shut. The clock on the nightstand reads 10:15pm. One day down. Four more to go. And then the baking competition.

Clarke groans when she finally crawls beneath the down comforter, sinking into the bed like it’s made of marshmallow. And though she closes her eyes, it takes nearly an hour before Clarke’s busy-mind and fast-beating heart slow enough for her to finally drift to sleep.

**_Rental House, Wembley, Polis - December 20th 2018 - 8:30 CET_**  


“Eggs, pancakes, bacon… _shut up!_ ” Eliza hisses at the beeping white circle on the kitchen wall. “What do you want? Huh? I’m doing my best.”

She waves a cloth mitt at the _very_ crispy bacon as it comes out of the oven. It’s slightly charred. A little over done, but the kid won’t notice, right? Eliza clenches her fists in frustration as the loud percussive beeping continues. With an indignant cry she pulls the thing off the wall, fumbling with the back for a while before banging it against her knee. A small plastic square falls off and then two little silver cylinders. With the infernal device conquered, Eliza spins back around… and freezes. A small girl sits on the far side of the kitchen island, looking at Eliza as if she has grown two heads.

“Good morning,” Eliza practically sings, her triumphant smile widening despite the child’s expression of horror. “Breakfast is ready.”

Madi looks down at her plate of blackened food and then back at Eliza. “Are you feeling okay, Clarke? You never burn _anything._ ”

“I’m grand— I mean, super. I’m super!” Eliza calls over her shoulder as she chucks the white circle into the bin.

“Why are you throwing away the smoke detector?” 

“What, this?” Eliza laughs. So _that_ is what the nasty thing does. “Who needs one of these anyways, right?”

“Sure, Clarke.”

“Eat up.”

“Seriously?” Madi pinches a piece of bacon between her fingers and watches as it turns to ash.

“At least try the pancakes. They’re golden. On one side.”

“Clarke,” Madi whines, her face screwing up.

“Come on. It’s not that bad.” Eliza rips off a piece of pancake from Madi’s plate and stuffs it into her mouth. She chews the food and nods encouragingly at the kid. Then the acrid taste of scorched sugar fills her mouth and Eliza grimaces even as she swallows the bite. “Okay, you’re right. It’s disgusting. Why don’t we go out to eat?”

“Anything, but this.” Madi agrees fervently.

“Ha ha. Just grab your stuff, kiddo.”

Madi gives her an odd look.

“What?”

“Since when do you call me ‘kiddo’?”

_Shit._ “Since now. Got a problem with it?”

“Not really—”

“Good, then let’s go! Aren’t you hungry?”

Madi gives her another odd glance and then she hops off the bar stool to go put on her shoes. Eliza breathes a sigh of relief and throws her wallet into Clarke’s messenger bag, before pulling on her coat. 

“Ready!” Madi announces loudly.

“Great,” Eliza slings the bag over her shoulders. “Where’s my scarf? Oh, there it is.”

“Your phone’s ringing!”

Sure enough, a buzzing sound emanates from the couch where Eliza drank her burnt coffee earlier. “Grab it for me, will you?” she calls from the front door while pulling on the same white Converse from yesterday. The vibrating continues and Eliza looks up from tying her shoelaces, frowning.

Madi stands next to the sofa, iPhone held between her small hands and a strange expression on her face. She looks up at Eliza with sharp brown eyes — too sharp for a nine year old — and asks slowly, “Clarke, why does it say you’re calling yourself?”

Eliza opens her mouth, standing. Madi raises the phone and Eliza can see the name _Clarke Griffin_ flashing on the illuminated screen. Eliza’s brain flatlines for a second and then kicks into gear.

“I can explain,” she holds up her hands as if Madi might jump her at any moment. The kid’s expression has turned almost feral. And those three words - _I can explain_ \- solidify the certainty on Madi’s face. Because in her haste, Eliza slips up — her words pitch higher and they lack Clarke’s distinct American accent.

Madi’s eyes narrow, “You’re not Clarke.”

**_The Palace, Outside of Wembley, Polis - December 20th 2018 - 9:00 CET_**  


Clarke sighs and tucks her phone into her nude clutch. Her footsteps are slow and cautious as she makes her way downstairs to the dining room for breakfast. Even though she is wearing Eliza’s shortest pair of heels, Clarke holds the banister for support, her movement restricted by the plum-colored sheath dress clinging to her frame.

“One step at a time,” she whispers to herself encouragingly as she leaves the relative safety of the banister behind. Raven’s directions are clear enough and Clarke finds the breakfast room in the west wing after only four wrong turns and one run-in with a startled palace employee. She sits down at the abnormally large mahogany table and tries not to think about how weird it is to be eating all alone in a castle that probably houses over a hundred.

“Your grace?”

Clarke looks up from her muesli. A tall man stands in the doorway, his burly visage tempered in part by his sleek black suit. She assumes this man is Gustus — the queen’s right-hand. Clarke hopes she’s right. “Yes?”

“Is now a fine time to discuss the wedding menu?”

“The menu?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I don’t see why not,” Clarke smiles weakly, unable to think of some excuse.

The man strides into the room, coming to stand across from her. He glances down at the clipboard in his hands. “Chef has sourced the halibut you requested and thinks an almond crust would be excellent. He only needs to know which of your relatives has the nut allergy so that we can mark them down for the alternative option.”

“ _My_ relative?”

“Yes, your grace,” Gustus prompts, expectantly.

“Of course,” Clarke nods, her lips pinching into a thin line. She doesn’t remember much of Eliza’s extended family. Hopefully, neither will the queen’s assistant. “I believe it was my great uncle Percy. On my mother’s side.”

Gustus opens his mouth to respond, but before he can another voice reverberates through the room, “Didn’t he die five years ago?”

Clarke twists in her chair and Gustus bows as the queen walks through the open door. _Fuck._ What is she doing here? “Yes, he did indeed.” Clarke clears her throat, turning back to Gustus. “There won’t be any issue with the almond crusted halibut then.”

“Your grace. Majesty,” he inclines his head and moves away as Lexa strides up. The queen leans down, pressing her lips against Clarke’s cheek. The kiss only lasts a moment, but the blonde thinks she can actually feel the blood rushing to her face at the contact. 

“What are you doing here?”

Lexa takes the seat beside Clarke, facing her. “I thought you would be happy to see me.”

“I am! Of course, I am. I just…” Clarke stirs her muesli. “I thought you left for Spain last night.”

“I had the good sense to turn around before I made it to the airport,” Lexa states simply. And Clarke’s eyes snap up as the queen places a hand over her own on the table. “I realized that I have a habit of prioritizing work over my relationships and… and I’d like that to change. So, here I am. I want to spend as much time together as possible over the next few days.”

“Oh,” Clarke’s eyes meet Lexa’s and her breath stalls in her throat. This is definitely _not_ part of the plan. “How lovely.”

“In fact, I’m happy I caught you for breakfast. We should discuss the charity ball tomorrow—”

“Oh no! I just finished eating,” Clarke insists, standing. A firm fluttering panic grows in her stomach the longer she looks at the queen. She needs to call Eliza. This is not going to work. How can she keep this up for _four whole days_ , convincing the queen she is someone else?

Lexa rises with Clarke and for a moment they stand barely an inch apart. Too close. Clarke steps away from the table with a nervous laugh. She throws together a haphazard curtsy as she backs away.

“I’ll see you in an hour then?” Lexa calls after her. “At the stables.”

“The stables?”

“I thought you would enjoy a morning ride.”

Clarke blanches, “Do we have to?”

“No,” Lexa frowns slightly. “I just thought— you said you liked our rides the best.”

“I did?” Clarke squeaks out, then clears her throat. “I did. Of course. How silly of me to forget. An hour then?”

Clarke has to squeeze her hands together to keep from running out of the room until the queen has responded and the proper etiquette has been observed. Then Clarke hurries into the hall, cursing under her breath. She almost runs into Gustus in her haste and quickly excuses herself before heading towards her room. After about ten feet, Clarke realizes she is going the wrong way and circles around. Gustus raises his eyebrows at her, but Clarke just simpers prettily and keeps walking. The imposter-duchess is well out of ear shot when the queen’s advisor hails another man in a dark suit.

“Murphy,” Gustus stares after the retreating blonde. “Does the duchess seem…”

“Different, sir?”

“Hmm, yes. Different. Keep an eye on her, will you?”

“Sir.” The man named Murphy nods and clasps his hands together behind his back. He takes up a slow pace, trailing after the duchess at a distance.

Oblivious, Clarke walks as quickly as her heel-clad feet will allow. Her fingers punch Eliza’s name into her phone while a list of muttered profanities stream from her lips. She listens to the dull ringing in her ear, waiting, but the call goes to voicemail. _“Shit,”_ Clarke spins, pinching the bridge of her nose.

“May I be of service, your grace?”

The blonde lowers her hand and stares at the wiry man before her. He is not particularly tall, nor his hair particularly dark. But his features are strangely angular and he has a visible intensity about him. Clarke smiles tightly, raising her voice and lilting it in the Arkadian way, “Please, excuse me…”

“Murphy, ma’am.”

“Murphy. Please, excuse me. I’m not usually so crass, but my phone seems to be acting up.”

“Would you like to use mine, ma’am?”

Clarke’s eyes widen as she takes in his proffered mobile and devilish smirk, “No, thank you. I wouldn’t want to impose.”

“It’s no imposition, your grace.”

“I really can’t—”

“I insist.”

Clarke opens her mouth, ready to refuse again. But she doesn’t have to. Raven rounds the corner and her eyes narrow on them.

“Causing trouble as usual, I see,” the brunette drawls, sliding up to the pair with a basket balanced on her hips. For a moment Clarke thinks Raven is speaking to her, but the woman levels her sharp gaze on Murphy and the man straightens, pocketing his phone. “How original.”

Murphy smiles, holding Raven’s gaze, “Her grace was having trouble placing a call and I was simply close by. I am attempting to be useful, Reyes.”

“The key word is _attempting_ , Murphy. Maybe work on _succeeding_ next time.”

“Happily.”

Raven raises her eyebrows, “So easily swayed?”

“Only for you.”

“Really, Murphy.” Raven shakes her head with a snort. “Now that you’ve had your fun, run along. Her grace is perfectly capable of making her own calls.”

Murphy’s eyes slide to Clarke, “Only if you are quite sure, your grace. I do _so_ want to be helpful.”

“Helpful?” Raven glares before Clarke can respond. The fiery brunette shoves her basket into Murphy’s arms. “ _Here_. Take this to the laundry. It’s that way. And try not to get lost.”

Clarke’s face flames as Raven drags her down the hallway, “It that _my_ laundry— I mean, _Eliza’s_?”

“No,” Raven chuckles darkly. “It’s mine. And don’t worry, we have a standing agreement. Murphy does my wash every Wednesday. He forgets, of course. But I always find a way to remind him.”

Clarke twists her head around and catches a glimpse of Murphy’s enraged face before she and Raven round the corner and slip from view.

**_Town Square, Wembley, Polis - December 20th 2018 - 10:30 CET_**  


The phone screen lights up with Clarke’s name for a third time and Eliza glances over at Madi before answering it, “Hello?”

_“Eliza?”_

“Who else were you expecting?”

_“Well, you haven’t been answering my calls. Excuse me for wondering if you’d been kidnapped,”_ Clarke’s sour tone is clear enough on the other end.

“Sorry,” Eliza sighs, her eyes meeting Madi’s across their cafe table. “I’ve not been kidnapped, exactly. But I do have a situation here.”

_“What—”_

Eliza hands the iPhone across the table, “You better explain this one.”

“Hey there, princess,” Madi says into the device, then pauses as the woman on the other end responds. The kid laughs, “Duh! You guys are _nothing_ alike. Eliza made charcoal this morning instead of bacon. I just put two and two together.” Eliza glowers at the amused look Madi throws her, listening again to whatever Clarke is saying. The kid’s mouth falls open, “Are you joking? Of course, I’m okay with this! Eliza told me everything. About the scholarship and how I’ll be able to do the summer program. It’s so cool!” The two talk for a few minutes longer, before Madi hands the phone back to Eliza with a twinkle in her eyes, “For _you_.”

“Clarke?”

_“Eliza?”_

“Yeah, it’s me.”

_“Good,”_ the relief in Clarke’s voice is tangible. _“Look, everything is fine on your end. Madi won’t be a problem, but you need to get back here now. Lexa didn’t leave—”_

“Wait, what?”

_“Yeah,”_ Clarke’s voice is three octaves higher than normal. _“She came back and wants to spend as much time with me— I mean, you, as possible. She said something about a ball tomorrow. I can’t go to a ball. I can’t dance. You didn’t tell me any of this—”_

“Clarke, calm down. Take a breath.” Eliza breathes in and out loudly by example, giving Madi a reassuring look when the girl tries to reach for the phone.

_“Don’t tell me to breathe! I’m supposed to be riding in an hour. I’ve never ridden a horse in my life. I haven’t even seen one outside of a hallmark movie!”_

Eliza forces herself not to laugh, “It’s not that difficult, I promise.”

_“Not that difficult? NOT THAT— I KNOW, RAVEN! Look, just come back here, okay? We’ll figure something out. I’ll still help you, but just for today—”_

“I can’t, Clarke,” Eliza’s sighs. “With the preparations for the ball underway, there will be too many people around the castle for me to sneak back in. You’re going to have to do this on your own. I believe in you!”

_“Great. You believe in me. I’m still going to fall on my ass like a—”_

The door to the little cafe opens, sending a small chime tinkling merrily as Bellamy walks through. He catches sight of Eliza and Madi and waves, weaving his way towards them.

“I’m sorry, Clarke, but I really have to go! Good luck!” Eliza whispers hurriedly into the phone before ending the call and smiling at the approaching man.

“I got the saucepan and apron!” Bellamy announces as he settles into the empty chair. “I don’t know how you couldn’t find this stuff, Clarke. I walked into the first shop and BAM! There was tons of kitchen stuff.”

“Bam?” Madi raises her eyebrows at her dad.

“It’s a word. Look it up.”

Eliza bites back her grin as she pilfers through the bag Bellamy set down, pretending to inspect his purchases. Satisfied with her show, she leans back and asks sweetly, “What would I do without you?” 

“Finally! You recognize my talent.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Eliza sips her coffee primly. “I’ve always recognized your talent.”

Madi shakes her head subtly as if to say Clarke doesn’t ‘sip’ things, but Bellamy seems oblivious. He scoffs, crossing his arms. “Really? So are you just deciding now to be more verbal about it?”

Eliza levels her gaze on him, “Yes, it’s going to be part of my New Year’s resolution.” She smirks, pretending to check off a list. “Boost Bellamy’s confidence. Tell him he’s talented at least twice a day. Give big hugs. Be less grumpy.”

Bellamy chortles, throwing his head back. “I don’t think you’ll manage that last one, Clarke. You’re pretty much the Grinch.”

“Hey!”

“What? Your words, not mine.”

“I can be fun! I’m the _funnest_ ,” Eliza insists heatedly.

“Really? When are you going to fit ‘fun’ into your tightly packed schedule?”

Eliza purses her lips, “What schedule?”

“Yeah, dad.” Madi picks up her mug, copying Eliza by peering at him loftily over her mug of hot cocoa. “What schedule?”

Bellamy glances back and forth between the pair, before asking Eliza indignantly. “Clarke, what have you done to my child?”

“I gave her to the aliens. They seemed happy enough to take her.”

“How could you?”

“She was complaining about my cooking,” Eliza shrugs, throwing a wink at Madi. “Asking for too many cookies. Had to be done.”

Bellamy breathes in sharply, “Without even consulting me?”

“I don’t know what you’re complaining about. This one is far better behaved.”

“What about our plan, Clarke?”

“Eh, plans are overrated. I’ve decided to be spontaneous,” Eliza smiles gleefully at the dumbstruck expression which sweeps over Bellamy’s face.

“Excuse me? Are you sure the aliens didn’t swap _you_?”

Madi chokes on her cocoa, coughing. Eliza’s heart beats out of her chest, but Bellamy simply reaches a hand over to pat his daughter’s back. Madi glances between the two before pushing her dad’s hand away and saying, “It’s true. Clarke promised, ‘no more plans.’”

“Really?” Bellamy asks dubiously, folding his arms. “I’ll believe that when I see it.”

Eliza smiles smugly and reaches into her messenger bag. Bellamy’s eyebrows rise slowly as she withdraws a folded piece of paper and holds it up for inspection. It’s their sightseeing itinerary, the list of where they are supposed to be at every hour of every day until the competition. Without breaking eye contact with him, Eliza tears up the paper into fat, snowflake-sized pieces and scatters them onto the cafe table. She pretends to wipe her hands off before leaning back in her chair with a smirk. Madi grins from ear to ear, but Bellamy… Bellamy is in shock. And Eliza’s bright gaze stays fixed on him, on his bewildered excitement, as she inquires casually, “So guys, what should we do?”

**_Stables, Outside of Wembley, Polis - December 20th, 2018 - 11:00 CET_**  


Clarke wrinkles her nose as the distinct smell of hay and shit wafts towards her from the open double-wide stable doors. She rolls her shoulders in her padded equestrian jacket and tries not to notice how her brown knee-high boots pinch around her little toes.

_“Saddle. Stirrup. Bridle. Reins,”_ Clarke mutters to herself on repeat as she walks through the stable doors. Did she look up vocabulary for horseback riding? Yes. Yes, she did. But it’s not because she wants to impress Lexa. It’s not that at all. Clarke just hates being bad at things. One of the reasons she chose baking as a career was because it always came naturally to her. She was _fucking_ amazing at it. She could bake a perfectly fluffy Joconde sponge. But animals? Not so much.

She’d had a goldfish once. It had lived for about a week before a couple of late nights in the shop during its first year killed the poor thing. It wasn’t that she forgot to feed it. In fact, Clarke gave it plenty of food in advance. She just hadn’t expected the poor thing to eat and eat and eat and _eat_ until it exploded. Yeah, that had been a surprise. So when Finn had offered for them to buy a puppy together, Clarke had firmly refused, citing a natural disinterest. Which was only partially true.

_“Bridle. Stirrup. Saddle. Reins,”_ she mumbles once more before pushing through the wooden gate to the riding pavilion where the queen and stablehands wait.

Lexa turns slowly as if sensing Clarke’s presence and the smile which softens her face is utterly devastating. Clarke’s mouth goes dry as her eyes slide over Lexa, taking in the tightly fitted beige riding pants and hunter-green jacket which only serve to accentuate the queen’s lean, athletic form. The woman looks delectable and it’s all Clarke can do to remind herself that she is _not_ in fact the queen’s fiancé. She has to remind herself repeatedly and, even though she is mentally berating herself, Clarke’s lips twist up in response to Lexa’s smile. It’s fucking impossible to stop it.

Still the smile falters from Clarke’s lips when her gaze slides over to the two horses beside the queen. Her eyes bug out and that muscle in her chest begins to beat in quick succession at the sheer enormity of the beasts. One is a pale, dappled gray with a mane of shocking white and the other, which the queen’s stands beside, is such a dark shade of umber that the steed appears almost black. Clarke forces the smile back onto her lips as she walks up to the clearly insane monarch. Who would ever voluntarily choose to ride these creatures?

“You look lovely, Eliza,” Lexa’s voice is low and husky as her gaze roves over the blonde. Clarke inclines her head as if to say, ‘what’s new?’ and hopes the queen doesn’t notice that it’s because her voice has stopped working.

“Are all horses in Polis this large?” Clarke finally manages to croak out as she stares up at the white beast she is supposed to mount.

Lexa laughs lightly, “These two are only slightly larger than average.”

“Really?” Clarke asks, glancing at the queen. “In Arkadia, they’re _much_ smaller. More like large ponies, really.”

Lexa only smiles indulgently and Clarke curses herself. Why did she say that? Do they even have horses in Arkadia? Isn’t it an island? _Fuck_.

“Shall we?” Lexa gestures Clarke to her mount and the fake duchess smiles weakly before walking slowly up to the horse.

_“Stay still, okay?”_ Clarke whispers to the white mare as she reaches up to grasp the slick leather of the saddle. An entire mile seems to stretch between the ground and the stirrup, but with stubborn determination she fits her foot through the metal loop. Clarke hoists herself up, belly first, onto the horse. At least that is what she tries to do. Her momentum combined with the slippery leather sends her careening over the other side of her mount in a full summersault.

_“Fuck me,”_ Clarke hisses under her breath as she blinks up at the ceiling of the pavilion. That hurt. The roof is completely obscured from Clarke’s view as the queen bends over her, face filled with concern. Lexa’s brown braid swings over one shoulder as she glances down and her hands reach out to ghost along the blonde’s body.

“Are you alright?”

Goosebumps erupt over Clarke’s skin at the queen’s touch and she clears her throat before answering, “Fine. I’m fine. Just a little… overzealous.”

Lexa pulls Clarke to her feet and brushes the pavilion’s sand off of her back. Clarke bites her lip as the queen’s hands glide quickly over her ass. The woman seems to realize what she’s doing at the same moment Clarke does because the queen’s hands immediately fall to her side and her green eyes snap to Clarke’s.

“I’m fine, really.” Clarke assures her, blushing.

“Let me help you up.”

“No, really, it’s fine—”

“I insist.”

Lexa guides Clarke to the other side once more, her hand resting on the small of the blonde’s back. And Clarke resigns herself to the fact that she is going to have to get used to the queen touching her. She just needs to get a grip. Then she’ll be fine. Just follow the plan. But her breath hitches as Lexa’s strong hands grip her waist, lifting Clarke onto the leather saddle. And all thoughts or plans or purpose drift away under the growing warmth in Clarke’s stomach.

“Thank you,” she murmurs and closes her eyes briefly as the queen’s hand slides off her thigh. The monarch mounts her own horse deftly, then urges the steed out of the pavilion. Clarke lifts the reins and tries to copy the video she watched earlier, laying the reins gently against the horse’s neck to turn the animal. The mare starts and begins to walk quickly after Lexa’s steed.

Clarke tries to calm her heart as they guide their mounts into the snowy pasture beyond. The day is overcast with bits of sunshine here and there, but the adrenaline keeps Clarke warm and she finds that if she can remain impassive, her mare is happy to follow Lexa’s. Thankfully. They ride in a comfortable silence, listening to the sounds of nature and the crunch of snow beneath heavy hooves. Every so often, Lexa points out an interesting landmark to Clarke as they ride through frosted trees and powdery hilltops.

The sharp wind nips at Clarke’s nose turning it red, but she doesn’t mind. It’s the most peaceful Clarke has felt in years. All the busy city noises just a distant memory from atop a quiet, snowy hill. Lexa draws her mount to a halt as they reach one such pinnacle of land, the trees thinning enough to create a perfect vista. Far below, the town of Wembley rests in a basin, looking like a toy village from this height.

_“It’s beautiful,”_ Clarke whispers softly, almost forgetting to use the Arkadian lilt in her rapture.

“It is,” Lexa’s voice is a quiet murmur next to her. “Absolutely stunning.”

Clarke glances over at the queen and finds Lexa already looking at her. Blood rushes to Clarke’s already flushed cheeks and she turns her gaze quickly back to the vista before them. “Do you come here often?”

“I do,” the queen nods in her periphery. “Especially when I need to get away. The silence helps me think.” 

“About affairs of state?”

“Sometimes. Other times, the need arises of a more personal nature.”

“Have you ever come here to think about me?” Clarke doesn’t know why she asks this. Any answer will be irrelevant. It’s Eliza, not Clarke that the queen will be considering. Still, when Lexa’s head turns sharply at the question, Clarke cannot help but twist to meet the queen’s gaze.

Lexa opens her mouth, eyes searching Clarke’s. Her brows furrow at whatever she finds there. “More times than I can count,” she finally admits.

Clarke smiles and turns back to the view, teasing. “And the affairs of state? Are they as much of a burden?”

A light chuckle rings out. “Infinitely more burdensome.”

“You know, burdens aren’t so bad… if you have someone to share them with.”

“I suppose. Although I would not trouble you with mine.”

“Wouldn’t they be _ours_ after the wedding?”

Lexa shakes her head, “You won’t need to worry yourself about such things.”

“Worry myself?”

“I just mean that you will be too busy planning galas and organizing dinners—”

“Polishing my tiara?” Clarke asks, her voice hardening at the queen’s dismissive tone.

“What? _No._ But you’ll have important duties like entertaining—”

“So a gala is more important than a foreign trade agreement or a peace summit?”

“Of course not,” Lexa’s sighs. “But you can hardly be interested by those discussions.”

“Why not?” Clarke grips her reins tighter and turns her burning gaze on the queen. “Because I’m not clever enough? Because I’m too shallow to grasp the _grand_ politics which weigh on your shoulders? If you think my only use is to plan a social function, then I confess I have no idea why you agreed to marry me in the first place.”

“That’s not what I—”

“It’s getting cold. I think I’ll head back,” Clarke bites out, turning her steed back down the hill. She’s not sure what has come over her, but the indignation which burns in her chest has enough heat to warm her to the bone. Whether the fiery emotion is on Eliza’s behalf or spurred by some self-pity, Clarke cannot say. But the presumptuous way with which Lexa _told_ Clarke what were ‘acceptable’ interests grated on her nerves. And Clarke has never been very good at keeping her mouth shut.

“Eliza!” Lexa’s strong voice calls after her.

Clarke braces her shoulders, but doesn’t turn around, urging her horse forward. And a small, bitter part of Clarke excuses this petty behavior because, after all, _that_ is not her name.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What do you think? Which part was your favorite? Your comments give me life and help me to write so hit me up with your thoughts/reactions! Next chapter will probably be out in a week. I need to give myself some time to get ahead in writing. But if I end up writing like a crazy person, I might post chapter four sooner! Xx


	4. Chapter 4

_**The Palace, Outside of Wembley, Polis - December 21st, 2018 - 9:00 CET  
** _

A firm knock rattles the door, causing both Clarke and Raven to look up from their half-eaten breakfast. Out of instinct rather than intention, Clarke begins to stand, but Raven shoots her an exasperated look, commanding her to _‘sit’_ before stalking towards the entryway.

“Yes, _your grace_ ,” Clarke simpers, letting the sarcasm roll off her tongue, and pretends not to see the middle-finger Raven flips her. The brunette cracks the door open and then sighs loudly.

“What do you want, Murphy?”

“Reyes,” comes the stiff, biting voice. “Her majesty requests the duchess’ presence in the portrait gallery at her earliest convenience.”

“I’ll be sure to inform her grace. Is that all?” A silence follows in which Clarke imagines the man to give a sharp nod of his head. But Raven seems to be the one with unfinished business, calling him back by name, “Murphy!”

“Reyes?”

“Wait a moment.” Without hesitating for his response, Raven turns from the door and strides to where Clarke is sitting. “Are you finished?” she asks and when Clarke nods, the brunette lifts the dish-laden tray before walking back to the entryway. Her voice is dripping with delight as she hands the object through the door to the poor, waiting bastard and says, “For the kitchen. You’re a doll, Murph.” 

Clarke stares at the woman as she tosses the door shut, cutting off the indignant response, and saunters back to her seat beside the blonde.

“Are you trying to get into a fight?”

“Oh, he loves it,” Raven waves her hand.

_“Really?”_

“Yeah, he’s into that whole domination thing.”

“Have you two…?

“What? Oh no,” the brunette shakes her head with a laugh. “Not that he hasn’t tried. But it’s too much fun to tease him. Keep him hanging, you know?”

Clarke snorts, “Can’t say that I do, but I’ll trust your word.”

“You heard all that stuff about the queen, right?”

“Of course. You weren’t exactly whispering.”

“Best get a move on then.”

Clarke lets out a long sigh and stands, running a hand over the green lace fabric of her dress. She normally would not be caught dead wearing something so frilly, but Eliza’s wardrobe doesn’t seem to include casual items like faded jeans or plain t-shirts. Plus, the jade fabric is nearly the same color as the queen’s eyes… not that Clarke would ever admit that particular observation out loud. Clarke is slightly steadier in her nude heels than the previous day and it’s enough to get her to the portrait gallery per Raven’s instructions with minimal effort.

The long gallery stretches out before Clarke and at the far end she spies the lithe figure of the queen. Clarke takes a deep breath and walks down the sparkling, gold-leafed hall, trying to ignore the annoying click-clack of her heels against the polished floor. Lexa looks up at the heavy footfall, expression reserved. And Clarke cannot imagine that her own expression is any lighter given that the two haven’t talked since their disastrous horseback ride the day before.

Clarke tucks a lock of pale hair behind her ear and tries to ignore how her heart starts beating faster at the sight of the queen. Lexa is dressed more casually than before — fitted black slacks with a loose beige top tucked in. Her sleeves are even rolled up and Clarke has to purposefully fix her gaze on something other than Lexa’s arms. She turns and stares at the portrait on the wall; an older woman with salt and pepper hair and a severe brow stares back, a pendant gleaming on her chest.

“She’s beautiful,” Clarke nods at the artwork. “A little frightening, but beautiful.”

Lexa follows her example, hands clasped behind her back to gaze up at the portrait. “It’s my grandmother. And she was _terrifying_.”

“Really?”

“Absolutely,” Lexa snorts softly. “In a good way, though. She was a bit of a rebel.”

“How so?”

“Strong-willed. Opinionated. Courageous. A bit like you, in fact.”

Clarke blushes, “A woman ahead of her time then?”

“Hmm,” Lexa hums in affirmation.

“Her necklace is stunning.”

“It’s the family crest. _Ridiyo, Koma, Hodnes._ Truth, Honor, and Love.”

“Beautiful,” Clarke murmurs, staring at the pendent. A small silence stretches between them until Clarke finally works herself up to ask, “You wanted to see me?”

Lexa nods, “Yes, I wanted to apologize for yesterday… I don’t wish to make excuses for my behavior, but I hope I can help you understand. You see, I— I’ve been alone for many years.” The queen’s voice becomes hushed, like she’s revealing a secret and a slight tremor enters it as she continues, “Even when my parents were alive, I was still alone most of the time. And I’m not used to… It will take time for me to adjust to the idea of having someone else around, someone else to share my burdens with. But I do want that… I want _this_.”

Clarke twists to look at the queen and sees that Lexa’s gaze is directed downwards, her hands now clasped in front, one rubbing at the other, almost like a tick. Something cinches around Clarke’s chest at the sight. “I’m sorry too,” she murmurs softly.

“What?” Lexa’s green eyes snap up. “Eliza, you have nothing to be sorry for.”

“I shouldn’t have run away. It was childish and unproductive.”

“But you were right. I was not giving you nearly enough credit. You—” Lexa takes a deep breath turning to face Clarke and folds the blonde’s hands into her own. “You are going to be my wife and if you have an opinion on _anything_ , I want to hear it.” Lexa’s thumb runs over Clarke’s knuckles and the blonde swallows tightly as the queen continues, “I like that there is fire within you. Don’t hide it. Never hide it from me.”

“Okay,” Clarke breathes out, not knowing what else to say in the face of such tender emotion. “Deal.”

Lexa’s lips tilt up at the simplicity of their resolution, drawing Clarke’s hand to her mouth. And Clarke forgets how to breathe as Lexa’s lips brush across her skin, sending a spike of heat straight through her. It’s just attraction, she tells herself. Just simple attraction. It doesn’t mean anything. But Clarke finds herself withdrawing from the queen, trying to put some distance between her heart and whatever is happening between them.

“If that’s all?”

“That’s all,” Lexa nods, her face a regal mask once more. But when Clarke begins to dip into a curtsy, the motion cracks through the queen’s shell once more and Lexa sighs, “Please, you don’t have to do that.”

“Alright,” Clarke nods. “I’ll see you at the ball then, Lexa.”

_“Eliza.”_

Clarke turns to leave and as she walks from the gallery, she shakes herself a little, hoping to dislodge whatever daze seems to sweep over her whenever the queen is around.

_**Town Square, Wembley, Polis - December 21st, 2018 - 11:00 CET  
** _

Eliza sets down her paintbrush and glances over at the two people beside her. Madi and Bellamy have their heads bent over their glass globes, hiding their ornaments from each other. The three of them are sitting at a crafting booth in the town square, the one they stumbled across after grabbing a bite to eat at the same delicious cafe as yesterday.

Now Eliza pinches her lips together, holding back her laughter, as she watches the ridiculously competitive father-daughter duo eye each other, trying to get a glimpse of the other’s creation. A smile ripples across Eliza’s face and she shakes her head in amusement before putting the last little dots of gold on her own ornament. 

“Alright,” she announces. “Reveal your masterpiece on three. Ready? One, two, three!”

Madi and Bellamy straighten, lifting their hand-painted ornaments into view. A hiccuping giggle leaves the nine-year old as she stares at her dad’s globe. “What is _that_ supposed to be?”

“Wha— It’s _Olaf!”_

“In summer?” the kid inquires smartly. “He looks like he’s melting. And you forgot his eyes, dad!”

Bellamy looks down at his ornament and snorts, “Oops.”

The three of them laugh and Madi proudly displays her Christmas tree, which is surprisingly good. “C’mon Clarke, let’s see yours.”

Eliza spins her ornament around to display the small globe with its pink, firework heart and gold flares.

“You’re disqualified! Right, dad? It’s not even Christmas themed!”

“Yes, it is,” Eliza insists, smiling softly down at her little globe. She feels ridiculously proud of it, despite its sloppy appearance. She has never made anything before and even if the heart is a little lopsided, it’s still her own. She turns to the pair beside her and says firmly, “Christmas should be about love.”

Bellamy’s dark brows lift at her words, “I’m not sure I’ve ever seen you so sentimental, Clarke.”

Eliza rolls her eyes, “Don’t make assumptions. You don’t know everything about me—”

“Oh, I _know_ you, Clarke. It’s hard to ‘un-know’ someone after you’ve seen them puke up their guts.”

_“What?”_

“Don’t act like you don’t remember New Years of 08. I don’t think it’s physically possible for your body to forget what it feels like to drink _that_ many shots of tequila.”

“I have no idea what your talking about,” Eliza states loftily, but Bellamy just chuckles.

“What’s te-kee-la?” Madi asks curiously.

“Ummm,” Bellamy coughs and Eliza smiles gleefully at his discomfort.

“Yeah, Bell, what is _tequila_?”

He glares at Eliza and then turns to his daughter. “It’s poison, Madi. If anyone ever offers you some, you just say politely ‘no, thank you’ and remember that tequila will te-kill-ya, okay?”

“But why would anyone drink poison?”

Bellamy grins wryly, “You’ll have to ask Clarke that one.”

Eliza snorts and shakes her head, before turning to the young girl. “Because I was very, _very_ foolish.”

Madi narrows her eyes as if she can tell that was an absolutely rubbish answer, but a sleigh passes by their stall, bells tinkling, and it pulls the girl’s attention. “It’s Santa! Can I?”

“Yeah, go ahead squirt,” Bellamy nods and Madi bolts off to get in line with the other children.

“Poison, really?” Eliza arches her eyebrows at him.

“I’m not technically wrong.”

“Well, of course not. Everything is lethal at a high enough quantity.”

“And where did you learn that?”

“Biology 101 in undergrad.”

He looks are her oddly, “They taught biology at culinary school?”

“Uh, no, of course not.” Eliza clears her throat, “I— I just took some classes for fun… in my spare time.”

“Spare time? Fun? I didn’t think those words existed in your vocabulary.”

Eliza holds his gaze, “Well, maybe you don’t know me as well as you think.”

A deep chuckle startles them both; the stall owner is shaking his head, apparently deeply amused by their bickering. He smiles as he hands them newspaper to wrap their dried ornaments. “It does me good to see two people so in love. And that kid of yours is pretty feisty. How long have you been married?”

Eliza opens her mouth, but no words come out. She looks at Bellamy and he seems equally stunned, brown eyes widened.

“Oh, no. No,” he finally shakes his head with a laugh. “We’re just friends. Madi is my daughter. Clarke’s her godmother. Yeah, _just_ friends.”

Eliza nods along to what he’s saying even as the merchant raises a dubious pair of eyebrows at them, “Really? You seem like a fine family to me.”

“Thanks, but Clarke’s not even my type.”

Eliza’s eyes snap to Bellamy, “What does _that_ mean?”

“Wha—” Bellamy turns to her. “You know what I mean!”

“Do I?”

“Yes!”

“So you don’t like blondes?”

“Clarke!”

“I’m just curious!” Eliza shrugs, noting his flustered appearance and reddening cheeks.

He splutters and throws his hands in the air, “I— You— _What?!_ ”

“Oh, calm down. Stop getting your panties in a twist. It’s just a question. Not the apocalypse,” Eliza drawls out as she hands the merchant money for their crafts. She looks at the vendor and smiles, “Thank you very much.”

“My pleasure, miss.”

Her smile widens. _Miss._ Just ‘miss.’ God, that’s nice. “C’mon Bell,” she calls to the visibly baffled man before walking in the direction of Santa Claus. When the two adults arrive, Madi has nearly made it to the front of the line. Bellamy and Eliza stand to the side with the other parents as the girl finally scampers up to sit on Santa’s knee. Madi clasps her hands together in her lap, grinning.

“What would you like for Christmas young lady?” The practiced, deep voice of the man behind the suit rings out. Bellamy rolls his eyes slightly at the show and Eliza glares at him.

“Well,” Madi thinks on it. “I’d like a new pair of ballet slippers—”

“Already under the tree,” Bellamy leans down to murmur in Eliza’s ear. She shivers as his breath ghosts across her skin, but with some effort she manages to keep her eyes fixed on Madi.

“—and peppermint bark—”

“That’s easy,” his breath flutters the small hairs at the back of Eliza’s neck.

“—and maybe a pony—”

“How the hell are going to get a pony in Chicago?” His voice is less restrained, louder, and Eliza elbows him in the stomach, not wanting him to ruin Madi’s moment with his dry commentary.

Madi seems to be finished, but then her face lights up and she adds, “Oh, and I’d like a new mom too.”

Bellamy lets out a choked cough, face turning bright red. And Eliza can’t help but tilt her head up to whisper in his ear, “Looks like you’ve got your work cut out for you, Blake.”

“Shut up,” the tall man mutters caustically, but forces a weak smile onto his face when his daughter comes bounding down to greet them. He ruffles her brown locks as they meander through the square. “Some pretty tall orders for Santa, don’t you think?”

“Nah,” the kid shrugs. “I mean he’s got enough magic to live in the Arctic, right? Finding you a woman and me a horse can’t be too difficult.”

“‘Finding me a woman?’ Where did you hear—”

“Octavia. She tells me that I’ve got to use my kid-charm and ‘find you a woman’ pretty much every time I’m over there—”

“Of course, she does.”

“—so I figure if I ask Santa, then I won’t have to do it. Not sure what kid-charm is anyways.”

Eliza smiles, “I think that’s part of it, kiddo.”

“God help me,” Bellamy mutters, rubbing the back of his neck, his cheeks still flushed. But Madi seems oblivious to her dad’s discomfort and keep prattling on about different things that Octavia has taught her until the trio comes to the performance stage. A group of elderly people are singing carols and the crowd has joined in, belting ‘ _deck the halls_ ’ to the overcast sky. Madi sings along enthusiastically and the tension finally leaves Bellamy’s face. Eliza nudges him in the shoulder and grins. He smiles back and they join in chorus, adding their loud and highly obnoxious baritone and alto to the mix. Eliza laughs at Bellamy’s exaggerated drama, smiling so hard that her face begins to hurt and she can barely keep up with the song.

And it’s then that she notices the lightness inside of her. As if the strain and stress of the past three months, the past twenty-seven years in fact, has been lifted. Because Eliza cannot remember the last time she felt this relaxed or had this much fun. Or was allowed to just be _silly_.

Her eyes fix brightly on Bellamy and Madi’s faces as they sing back and forth to each other, unafraid to look ridiculous or sound terrible, just singing for the pure enjoyment of being with each other. They stay until the choral group disperses, until their eyes shine from tears of laughter and their bellies ache from it.

“That was _amazing_ ,” Eliza breathes out as they leave, walking back towards the farmhouse. “I’ve never been to a sing-along before.”

“I thought you went last year with Finn?”

“Finn?” the name sounds so familiar, but Eliza’s pleasantly dazed mind cannot recall the specifics. Her heart starts to pound into her throat in the awkward silence that follows.

Bellamy frowns at her, “Yeah, Finn.”

“You know, Finn, the guy who broke your heart,” Madi leans into Eliza, nudging her.

“Right,” Eliza shoots the kid a grateful glance. Now she remembers: Clarke’s ex. “We did go, but this was _much_ more fun.”

“I don’t think anyone has ever accused Finn of being too much fun.”

“Yeah, he was a drag, wasn’t he?”

Bellamy gapes at her, but Madi simply nods in agreement. “Totally,” the kid pipes up and then skips ahead, kicking at a huge pile of powdery snow.

“Did you just call Finn — your precious, never-did-anything-wrong Finn — a drag?”

“Yep,” Eliza turns around, walking backwards. “In fact, I think it’s about time I got over Finn, don’t you?”

“I mean if you’re asking for my opinion, than it’s a whole-hearted _‘hell yes.’_ ”

“Good to know. And you?”

“What about me?”

“Are you feeling the holiday spirit? Ready for change? Bring in the New Year and all that jazz?”

Bellamy stares at her, considering. “I think so. I mean, it’s been almost seven years since Gina died…” he pauses, “I’ve dated people, you know that. But not seriously… I just don’t want to risk bringing someone into Madi’s life that might just leave again.” 

“I get that,” Eliza murmurs, heart clenching. Her hand instinctively rests over the silver wishbone necklace hidden beneath her coat — a reminder of her mother.

Bellamy swallows. “But I am ready, I think.” The two of them have come to a stop without realizing it, facing each other on the pavement.

“That’s good.”

“Really?”

“Absolutely,” Eliza holds his gaze. “You deserve that. You’re _worth_ that.” She doesn’t know exactly what compels her to say any of this. In fact, there is very little thought or planning going into her words at the moment. And for someone who has been trained to ‘say the right thing,’ this feels wholly different. Vulnerable. True. But she cannot say why.

Bellamy’s mouth opens, but his words never take shape because at that very moment a large, cold _something_ hits Eliza squarely in the back and she goes careening into his chest. His arms wrap around her, steadying her, and then another wet slap rings out and Eliza looks up to see his left shoulder covered in powdery white. A sharp laugh sounds from behind them and Eliza pushes off of Bellamy to spin around. Madi’s pink face puckers in excitement as she throws another snowball. This time Eliza ducks and it hits Bellamy again.

“Hey!”

“Every man for himself,” Eliza shouts over her shoulder and bends to scoop up the powder. She throws her ball at Madi and then twists out of the way right as a retaliatory, massive rocket of snow hurtles towards her from behind. Bellamy’s face splits in a wide grin and he laughs as his quick, secondary throw breaks across Eliza’s hip. She yelps and grabs more snow from the large pile blocking the pavement before throwing it back at him.

Madi runs by and sticks ice up Eliza’s shirt to which the blonde lets out a bellowing shriek. _“You fiend!”_ And then she’s doing a mad dance trying to shake the frost from her clothes. Her preoccupation with removing the snow distracts her enough that Bellamy has time to sneak up and pelt her with a solid shot square to her chest. Eliza lets out a puff of air as she topples over from the impact, falling back on the pile of powder.

“Ouch, sorry!” Bellamy’s rough, winded voice comes from above her. He blocks the bright gray sky overhead as he leans over, offering her a hand. Eliza takes his outstretched fingers with a smirk and gives a sharp tug that sends him crashing down on top of her. They both let out a large exhale from the impact and their heads thump together dully.

Bellamy’s eyes find hers and she tries to catch her breath as she stares back into that infinite brown. He smiles down at her and for a moment everything else seems to suspend, made obsolete by their shared breath. She watches crinkles form around his eyes and the warm light which refracts from their depths. Then Bellamy chuckles and rolls off, landing next to her in the powdery mound. And Eliza can feel the cold snow seeping through her jacket. But she ignores it. She glances over at Bellamy and grins back, pretending that time still hangs suspended between them.

_**The Palace, Outside of Wembley, Polis - December 21st 2018 - 19:00 CET  
** _

Crimson silk flutters around her ankles, the fine material a soft whisper against her skin as Clarke walks through the castle. Raven’s steady footsteps are a comfort beside her, and she glances over again at the woman.

“I—”

“You’re going to be fine,” Raven assures her for the tenth time. “Just remember: the ball is a charity gala to raise money for the children’s shelter in Wembley. It’s called St. Andrews. Eliza chose it and helped plan the ball—”

“As if I could forget,” Clarke grumbles.

“You’ll be fine, I promise. All you have to do is smile and nod graciously whenever anyone mentions it.” Clarke pauses, turning to look at the brunette and forcing her lips to stretch upwards. Raven laughs, “Exactly.”

Clarke rolls her eyes skyward and then keeps walking. Her feet are fairly steady in the nude heels and while the improvement is only marginal, Clarke considers it a triumph. She reaches a hand down to pull the fabric of her dress from between her legs where it’s attempting to cling and sighs. The sight of the dress almost gave her a stress-migraine earlier. Not because it was the overstuffed marshmallow-confection she had been expecting, but because it was the most beautiful gown she had ever seen. And because it probably costs more than one year’s rent in Chicago. It’s floor-length, delicate, and dramatic... everything Clarke is not. The sleeves are long and voluminous, cuffed at the end so that each subtle movement reveals the outline of her arm. And though the dress feels comfortable enough, Clarke has to remind herself every few steps to breathe.

When they reach the ballroom, Raven falls back and Clarke shoots her a withering look that is simultaneously petulant and desperate as if to say, _‘really? you’re gonna leave me to the wolves?’_ But Raven simply shakes her head and follows closely, catching the light in her silver sheath dress. The first flight of stairs leads to a landing perched above the dance floor and as Clarke halts at the top, she catches sight of the queen waiting on the platform below. Her back is to Clarke and from this angle, the low dip of Lexa’s gown reveals an expanse of sprawling ink which crawls from the nape of the monarch’s neck down her spine before disappearing into her dress. Clarke’s eyes drag up the thinly-strapped, white silk. And she tries not to notice how the sheer fabric flows like liquid over Lexa’s body. But it is nearly impossible to tear her eyes away and they linger too long on the sculpted planes of Lexa’s bare arms. Clarke presses a hand to her diaphragm, once more reminding herself to breathe.

Another deep inhale steadies Clarke enough to pull her feet forward, starting her descent. But her mind spins like a hamster wheel, running with every stray thought that crosses it and coming away with nothing to show for the effort. Words seem like a distant concept as the distance between her and Lexa shrinks... because what does one say when you greet a _queen_ for a _ball_? It’s certainly not something Clarke has ever thought to consider. And she really has no plan, no strategy at all. Except the fervent prayer beating through her blood that she somehow not royally fuck this up.

Clarke is on the last step leading to the platform when Lexa finally turns around. And the blonde’s heart skips a beat when those green eyes graze over her. Her pulse thumps wildly and she panics, any eloquent greeting quickly forgotten.

“Hi.”

Lexa’s honey-brown hair is draped over her left shoulder and it catches the light as she stares up at Clarke. “You look... _beautiful.”_

The blonde swallows, “And you look...” Again words fail Clarke and she’s left with just a one syllable utterance that is entirely lacking, “ _Wow.”_

A light cough sounds from behind them and Clarke looks back to see Raven inclining her head towards the dance floor. A single grand staircase now leads to the reception, but it’s the crowd to which Raven draws her attention. A hush has fallen; one by one those below raise their glasses until a tinkling sound of metal against glass swells to greet the new arrivals.

“What are they doing?” Clarke whispers, stepping down to join Lexa. But it’s Raven who supplies her with an answer.

“You’ve stopped under the mistletoe, your grace.”

_“Oh.”_

Lexa turns to Clarke, “Shall we give them what they want?”

“What _they_ want?”

Lexa only smiles in response - a wicked smile that sends Clarke’s heart racing once again as the queen leans forward. She doesn’t touch Clarke or pull her closer, but simply tilts her head towards the blonde. And there’s nothing hurried or forced in the movement. It’s slow and luxurious - like Lexa’s eyes which slide over Clarke’s face, taking in every fractional change in the blonde’s expression. Until there’s nothing else except the jade green of Lexa’s eyes and the sound of clinking glasses.

Clarke’s breath stalls in her throat when Lexa’s lips finally brush over hers, soft and featherlight. Air rushes into Clarke’s lungs on a stilted inhale and then her hands fly up to cup Lexa’s face, pulling the queen’s mouth more fully against her own. And she can feel everything in that moment. The stillness when Lexa stiffens. Then blinding warmth as the queen melts beneath her. Clarke’s body curves into the Lexa’s and her head tilts sideways, giving more access.

Another, louder cough sounds from behind them and it’s that noise which grounds Clarke back into reality. Her cheeks flush as she pulls away from Lexa, hands dropping to her side. How did she get so carried away? Shock paints the queen’s face as she stares at Clarke, obviously taken aback by the blonde’s enthusiasm. _That makes two of us_ , Clarke thinks sarcastically.

“Well,” Lexa clears her throat. “Shall we?”

Clarke takes her proffered arm and tries to quell the fluttering in her stomach as they descend to the dance floor. The tinkling turns into cheers and then into congratulations and wishes of happy holidays as they are surrounded. New faces swirl into focus before Clarke can manage to memorize the previous ones and her head begins to spin from the effort. Her hands grip Lexa’s arm tightly, like a grounding rod or flagpole to tether her. And Clarke finds herself completely unsure of who in the crowd already knows Eliza and who does not, so she simply nods and smiles at everyone, hoping that response is sufficient.

At some point, a glass of champagne is pushed into Clarke’s hand and she turns to see Raven’s silver-clad figure disappear back into the crowd. Foreign secretaries, local nobles, socialites, and business moguls mingle as one and it feels like nearly an hour has passed before Lexa and Clarke are finally buffered against the crowd.

Finally Clarke is able to take a proper look around. There are garlands of holly woven with red ribbon and wrapped around each marble pillar lining the room. Tiny lights suspends from the ceiling and, though they must be attached by strings, Clarke cannot see any and it creates the illusion of starlight.

“It’s so beautiful,” she murmurs.

The queen chuckles beside her, “Yes, you really outdid yourself tonight, Eliza.”

Clarke bites her lips, blushing. Wonderful. Now, Lexa will think Eliza is both horny and vain. Good old sex-crazed, narcissistic Clarke Griffin. _God_.

Lexa leans over to murmur in Clarke’s ear, “You know you can let go of my arm now.”

“Oh,” Clarke flushes, hands falling. “Right. Of course.”

Lexa looks at her strangely.

“What?”

“I’m only joking.” 

“Well, you should really work on your delivery.” Clarke whispers heatedly. But her annoyance is short-lived and fades under Lexa’s warm smile as the queen pulls Clarke’s hand back to her arm.

“Maybe later. Right now, I’d like to introduce you to the Prime Minister and our cabinet.” Lexa leads Clarke over to a smaller group at the back of the room and nods in greeting, “Titus, Anya, Indra… I’d like to officially introduce my fiancé, Elizabeth Kane. Eliza these are a few of the people who help keep this country running. Titus is our PM.” A wafer-thin man with intense eyes gives Clarke a shallow nod. “Anya is our Foreign Affairs Officer.” A woman with an angular face shoots her a sardonic half-smile. “And Indra, my mentor and our Chief of Conflict-Resolution.” A tall woman with dark skin and a stoic brow steps forward.

Clarke tries to imitate Eliza’s sharp charm. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you all.”

“Likewise,” Indra returns cordially. “We’ve heard a lot.”

“Really?”

“In fact,” Anya arches a delicate eyebrow. “Her majesty was telling us earlier that you are interested in politics.”

“Oh?” Clarke’s gaze slides to Lexa. “I suppose I am.”

The wafer-thin man - Titus - only smiles tightly, but Anya grins, clapping her hands, “Wonderful.”

“I’m glad to hear you think so. It took a _little_ more persuasion to convince the queen.”

Anya laughs, “Yes, our queen is quite stubborn.”

Lexa’s eyes narrow, but she remains silent. Clarke feels her curiosity peak and she gives Lexa a slight squeeze as she asks, “What else can you tell me about my dear fiance?”

“Well,” Anya lowers her voice. “There is a rumor that she might have narcolepsy. I believe that particular piece of gossip started almost two decades ago when she fell asleep during a cabinet meeting.”

“I was there for that,” Indra adds. “Her majesty snored the whole meeting and kept all of us, including her father, very amused.”

“Really?”

“I was ten years old,” Lexa scoffs.

Anya continues to goad the queen, “I swear I’ve caught her nodding off more than a few times since.”

“Now that is certifiably false,” Lexa insists and though her face is relaxed, Clarke can feel the tension in her arm. And it makes Clarke wonder how much of Lexa’s cool exterior is a mask for deeper insecurities. The woman has spent ten years all alone in this enormous castle. Ten years. Does the queen even have any friends? Eliza never mentioned any. How could anyone stay so isolated and not begin to question themself in someway? Clarke lets her thumb graze over Lexa’s bare skin.

“If her majesty did fall asleep, which I doubt,” Clarke counters. “It was without question from the sheer exhaustion of spending so many countless hours working. Really, you are tireless.”

Lexa glances at Clarke and the blonde smiles, hoping the queen can see her sincerity. The other individuals murmur their agreement. The sour man, Titus, finally speaks up.

“Our queen is the portrait of dedication. And this evening is a testament to that. I cannot tell your majesty how grateful I am that you’ve chosen to sponsor St. Andrews. That shelter has been a project of mine for many years.”

Lexa shakes her head, “The praise goes to Eliza this time. Her efforts put this evening together and it was her choice to give the proceeds to St. Andrews.”

“How _wonderful_ ,” he turns his sharp gaze on Clarke and the blonde forces herself to hold it. 

“I’m glad to hear you are sponsor. I’m very interested in learning more about St. Andrews. Do you know roughly how many children live there?”

Titus stiffens visibly, “I’m not sure. I’ve never actually been to the shelter myself.”

“Oh, I just wondered because I’d like to make sure that all the proceeds are distributed most effectively and since you—”

“Your grace,” the prime minister interjects, expression disdainful. “I’m sure you have people who can obtain that information for you. An assistant perhaps, or someone else? This really is not a matter _for us_ to discuss.”

Clarke feels her anger flare, and tries to tamp it down. _This_ is the kind of wealth she is used to, the kind her mother has always warned her about. People who have so much that they only learn to care in theory rather than in practice. Clarke swallows her frustration behind a tight smile and finally manages to bite out, “Of course, Prime Minister.”

Clarke barely listens to the rest of the conversation which carries on undeterred. She forces herself to wait another five minutes before excusing herself. She takes a circuit of the room, but Raven is nowhere to be seen and when she finally gives up on finding the one sane person in this whole damn palace, she snags a fresh glass of champagne and slips out onto the terrace.

The balcony is lit by several braziers, placed strategically to keep any adventuring guests warm. In the distance, tiny lights twinkle among the giant thuja and the rose bushes and their dance creates an intricate shadow-play against the horizon. Clarke moves to an unoccupied heater and places her back to it. This is her first real moment alone since she arrived in the castle, baring the few hours she’s spent sleeping. And perhaps it’s the space or time or room to breathe, but she suddenly feels painfully lonely. She wonders how Bellamy and Eliza are getting on and if Madi has been able to maintain the duchess’ cover. The champagne leaves her glass faster than she supposes is appropriate for _polite society_ , but Clarke doesn’t really care.

Her arms cross against the frigid air and she distracts herself from the feelings clawing at her stomach by reciting the proper method for baking a genoise sponge, all the while watching the shadows and light dance around the garden. And because she’s looking, her eyes catch on a flash of silver. Then the light illuminates a second, familiar head of brown hair as Raven and Murphy trail off into the gloom. Clarke snorts, shaking her head as she watches them disappear. They’re probably as likely to fuck as they are to fight with each other. Clarke doesn’t know which would be better for their mood.

“There you are. I’ve been looking for you.”

Clarke spins around and breathes in sharply as Lexa strolls towards her, two glasses of champagne in hand. And the swift return of Clarke’s earlier irritation is enough to assuage the raw feeling in her stomach. It’s not Lexa’s fault. Not really. But... she is part of this world. She is the _queen_ of it. Still the soft eagerness on Lexa’s face halts Clarke and she holds her tongue, taking the proffered flute instead.

Lexa raises her glass with a smile, “To us.”

Clarke nods, biting her lip as their glasses clink together. She can’t quite bring herself to say the words, to speak the lie. Because what is Clarke even doing here? Surely, this is madness. Not just for her to play this part, but for her to _enjoy_ it. As if she might keep it. No, tonight had been a rude awakening. She would never belong in this world.

A new, foreign sensation twists her throat and Clarke washes it down with more champagne. But she cannot hold the queen’s eyes. Not anymore, so she turns away and walks to the railing.

“Are you alright?” Lexa’s voice is stiff with uncertainty and its ruffles the hair on Clarke’s neck. The blonde glances over her shoulder to see that the queen has followed her footsteps. They stand only inches apart.

“No, I’m not,” Clarke grimaces. “I— I…” But what can she say? She cannot speak about any of the dozens of things which are definitely _not_ alright. So Clarke latches on to the one thing that she can, the simplest thought, the one closest to the surface — her irritation with the queen’s world. “I hope I did not offend your _prime minister_.”

Lexa steps back at the malice with which Clarke bites out the title. Then determination sets on her face and she steps even closer, placing a warm hand over Clarke’s where it rests along the railing. “It’s fine. I’m sure he took no offense.”

Clarke laughs sharply, pulling away, “Then does he care so little? Do _you_ care so little?”

“What? Eliza—”

Clarke’s irritation flares and words begin to tumble from her mouth, “Your prime minister doesn’t know anything about St. Andrews, a place he has supposedly sponsored for _years_.”

“I—” 

“No one here does!”

“You do,” the queen steps forward again, refusing to let Clarke pull away from her. “You chose those children—”

“Of course, I did,” Clarke fumes, past the point of flinching at the technicality of the lie. “But that’s not the point! Everyone here is throwing their money at whatever you— whatever _we_ tell them to, without ever stopping to question what it is for or how it will help! They feed into whatever ‘high society’ deems to be a noble cause, until the next, more trendy campaign comes along. Shouldn’t there be some responsibility, some _stewardship_ to having such wealth? Shouldn’t there be _understanding_ and _research_ that goes into each donation? Don’t you want to know _who_ you are helping? And not simply do it because of the word of some socialite?”

Lexa looks at Clarke, brows furrowed but expression soft. Her hands are raised, frozen in midair like she might reach out to hold Clarke and the thought sends a lump into the blonde’s throat. The queen concedes, “Of course. Eliza, you’re right—”

“I just— Maybe I just shouldn’t talk,” Clarke sighs at the gentleness in Lexa’s voice, so calm compared to the fire raging within her. “I only seem to say things that offend people.”

Lexa’s hands finally fall, sliding along Clarke’s arms to pull her hands into her own. “You may say some... big things, but none of what you have said is untrue. And you say it because you care, which is the best quality about you. You care so deeply.” Lexa runs her thumbs over the back of Clarke’s knuckles and just that simple touch seems to release the tension from Clarke’s muscles. “What if we went to the shelter tomorrow? Just the two of us. Get to know and understand what they need.”

Clarke breathes in shakily, her eyes dragging from their intertwined hands to meet the queen’s vivid gaze. “Really?”

“Yes.”

“I’d love that,” Clarke whispers, feeling that familiar warmth sting her eyes. “Thank you.”

“And...” the queen steps closer. “Maybe, while we’re alone, you can spend more time telling me about your ideas and I… I can spend more time listening.”

Clarke swallows, “I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”

“It’s a great idea,” Lexa squeezes her fingers lightly. “And speaking of them, we’ll be expected to perform a dance shortly.”

Clarke’s heart drops into her stomach, “Oh no. I— I can’t dance. I mean, I am a _terrible_ dancer.”

Lexa smirks, “It just takes practice.”

“I don’t think we have very much time for practice!”

“Then we’d better start,” Lexa whispers into her ear, pulling Clarke closer. The queen’s firm grip slides around Clarke’s waist and her right hand is trapped within Lexa’s left. Clarke laughs nervously, stumbling the first few steps. “Just look at me,” the queen murmurs softly and Clarke eyes snap up to Lexa’s. Her breath seems to expand in her lungs as she stares into that shadowed green, watching as Lexa’s pupils bloom. Then Clarke’s feet take on a different rhythm — Lexa’s rhythm. And the gentle pressure at her back urges Clarke forward, closer, into the queen’s space, until there is no air between them.

“I’m not sure this is proper dancing,” Clarke admits in a hushed voice.

The queen smiles, “I’m not sure I care.”

“You’re supposed to be teaching me.”

“And? Are you learning?”

“Yes,” a ghost of a smile sweeps over Clarke’s face and she rests her head against Lexa’s shoulder. And it’s only then, as she listens to the fast-beating heart of the queen, that Clarke realizes Lexa isn’t wearing a jacket, or a shawl, or a scarf. Her arms are a golden glow under the brazier’s light, her spine exposed to the frosty air.

“You must be freezing,” Clarke says into the queen’s collarbone as they sway lightly to the soft music from inside. And Clarke thinks she can feel Lexa’s smile against her hair as the queen says quietly, “I’ve never felt less cold in my entire life.”

_**Rental House, Wembley, Polis - December 21st 2018 - 22:40 CET  
** _

_“And then what happened?”_

Eliza groans, her face pinching as she remembers the aftermath of their snowball fight. “We were utterly _soaked._ After I caught him in the face, Bellamy held me down and unleashed the earth-shattering power of his daughter on me. I had snow everywhere, Clarke. My hands were _so_ cold, I could’ve sworn I had frostbite. And Bellamy said we were going to have to amputate—”

_“God, Bellamy can be so immature sometimes.”_

Eliza could hear Clarke laughing on the other end and she chuckled before admitting, “I actually found it rather endearing, really.”

_“You did?”_

“Yeah,” Eliza bites her lip, eyes rolling to the ceiling to restrain herself from gushing. “Yeah, it was really cute.”

_“Huh, well the Blakes are definitely puppy-like so ‘cute’ fits their description.”_

“Tomorrow we’re going to ride horses near the St. Nicholas Chapel. And then—”

_“Wait, what about the schedule? You were supposed to go see the Beaufort Fountain.”_

Eliza smirks, “Well we may or may not have torn the schedule into teeny tiny pieces and left it in a cafe.”

_“What?!”_

“Actually it was just me, but Bellamy and Madi seemed happy enough—”

_“Why would you throw away the schedule?”_

A loud knock rattles the door. Eliza frowns and tells Clarke to hold on, before sliding her phone behind her back. “Yeah?” she calls out with a lower, longer accent.

The door opens and Eliza almost chokes on her own breath as Bellamy pokes his head through. His entire chest is bare - his sculpted brown skin stretches out, flat and taut, until it disappears beneath long flannel pants.

Eliza realizes her mouth is open and immediately snaps it shut. “Hmm?”

“Sorry,” Bellamy smiles goofily. “I lost my toothpaste. Could I borrow yours?”

“Mmmhmm,” Eliza nods, unable to find words.

Bellamy cocks his head, “So... where is it?”

“Oh,” Eliza laughs and points her free hand at the vanity near the door.

“You feeling okay, Clarke?” He asks after picking up the tube. She must still be staring. Yep. She is definitely still staring.

“I’m great. Super great.”

“You sure? Your face is a little red.”

Eliza falters then begins to ramble awkwardly, “I think there might be a heating problem in the house. It’s way too hot. Don’t you think so? I mean, you…” she gestures at his bare skin and then feels her cheeks flush again. No one should look _that_ good.

“Nah, I’m fine. I can turn it down if you want?”

“Probably for the best,” Eliza nods, closing her eyes.

“Alright, goodnight Clarke.”

“Night, Bell,” she says, peeking again to catch the last glimpse of his bare back before the door swings shut. Oh bugger. Eliza breathes out slowly.

_“Hello? You still there?”_

“Yes, yes! I’m here! Sorry about that. You were saying?” But as Clarke begins to reprimand her again about the need for schedules and plans, Eliza can barely listen. Her eyes stay fixed on the door. Finally, her brain jumpstarts, “Have you ever seen Bellamy without his shirt on?”

_“What?!”_ Clarke laughs through the phone. _“No, of course not.”_

“And you guys aren’t together? I mean you haven’t ever…”

_“Nope. He really hasn’t had anyone serious in his life since Gina.”_

“I know,” Eliza breathes out, heart twisting.

_“Why do you ask?”_

“Oh, I mean, I just— he was walking around and he looks— you know— _good._ ”

_“Really? I mean, I could have guessed that. But… he’s just Bellamy, you know? God, you should have seen Lexa tonight, Eliza. She looked like… like… something else. Just so beautiful.”_

Eliza arches her eyebrows at the comment, “How was the ball?”

_“Good,”_ Clarke’s voice suddenly sounds higher than normal. A little squeaky. _“Yeah, umm… well I… I kissed Lexa. I mean, she kissed me. I mean, there was mistletoe! And everyone was clinking their glasses and… well, everyone was clinking their glasses! We had to, you know? It was basically life or death—”_

“Clarke,” Eliza tries to stop the poor girl’s tirade. “Clarke, it’s okay. It’s fine.”

_“Really?”_

Eliza bites her lip and then nods even though Clarke cannot see her, “Yeah, I mean you had to, right? I get it.”

_“Right.”_

“Okay, then.”

_“Yeah, great.”_

“You don’t…” Eliza swallows. “You don’t need me to come back there, do you?”

_“No, no! I mean… not unless you think I should go back?”_

“No! No, not at all. Everything is fine here.”

_“Good.”_

Relief floods Eliza,“Great.”

_“Well, goodnight then.”_

“Night Clarke.”

Eliza hangs up the phone and sighs. She falls back against the bed and stares up at the ceiling. When Clarke told her that she had kissed Lexa, Eliza felt nothing. That wasn’t normal, right? She should feel _something_ at least. Even if it’s not jealousy. But all Eliza feels is the lingering warmth in her cheeks. And even though she tries to make her mind think about that kiss, to find some emotion there, her thoughts keep returning to the image of Bellamy leaning against her doorway. Eliza is fairly sure _that_ image will be seared into her brain for the rest of her life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you like the new chapter? Let me know which parts were you favorite in the comments! 
> 
> Special thanks to Sheik, Hellzz, Veridissima, and TheyGotMeatballs for commenting on every chapter so far :) Each comment I read makes me smile and gets more excited about writing this!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PSA: This story does not have a beta. I would normally wait to post this chapter until I've read through it a few more times, but I have to keep writing. So this is just to say, I hope there are not too many errors and any which are present, you can forgive me for. Otherwise... Enjoy!

**_St. Andrews Children’s Shelter, Wembley, Polis - December 22nd 2018 - 13:00 CET_ **

“Twas the night before Christmas when all through the house, not a creature was stirring,” Clarke pauses, her eyes widening dramatically as she stares at the two dozen enraptured children before her and adds in a low whisper, “ _Not even a mouse._ ” She twists the large picture book so they can see before continuing, “The stockings were hung by the chimney with care, in the hopes that Saint Nicholas would soon be there.”

Clarke keeps her voice steady and tries her best not to be distracted by the heat of Lexa’s gaze. But when she pauses again to turn the page, the blonde risks a surreptitious glance at the queen. Lexa stands a few feet away with the shelter’s matron and though the two are conversing, the queen’s eyes stay fixed on Clarke where she sits with the children.

Pink tinges the blonde’s cheeks as she turns back, smiling at a small boy in the front row who cannot be more than eight. He has sharp cheekbones and steady gaze and strangely enough reminds Clarke of her mother. She reads the next line to him, “The children were nestled all snug in their beds, while visions of sugarplums danced in their heads.”

The children gasp at the flying sleigh and giggle at Santa’s jiggling stomach and when Clarke comes to the last line they all call out in unison, “Happy Christmas to all and to all a good night!” When she closes the book, the kids swarm her, talking over each other and asking questions. Clarke can hear the matron’s rough chuckle at their delight as well as her following observation.

“The duchess is special, isn’t she, your majesty?”

“She is, indeed,” the queen murmurs softly.

“I dare say you’ve found a real partner in her.”

Lexa’s reply is lost as the small boy from earlier places his hands on Clarke’s knees and sticks his face near her own. Clarke raises her eyebrows at the child’s scrutiny, but the boy simply frowns and asks, “Is it true you’re really a princess?”

The blonde grins, “Not yet. I’ll have to marry the queen first.”

“Are you _in love_ with her?”

Clarke’s eyes dart up. Both Lexa and the matron have joined their circle. The queen’s face is placid, relaxed almost… _too relaxed_. It’s that practiced detachment which tells Clarke that Lexa is waiting for her response. And the blonde can feel her cheeks warm as she turns back to the child, “I am.”

“How much do you love her? More than this?” The boy opens his arms.

“Yes, more than that.”

“More than this?”

Clarke laughs as the child tries to reach wider, “Yes.”

“More than the size of Polis? More than the universe?”

“Yes,” Clarke clears her throat, which feels suddenly tight. “More than even that.”

The little boy sits back, expression glum, “I wish I could be queen someday.”

“Not a king?”

“No,” he shakes his head firmly. “I want to be queen. Then someone will love me as much as you love the queen.”

Clarke’s heart twists and she opens her mouth, but before she can formulate a response, Lexa has knelt down by the young boy so that they are face to face.

“What’s your name?”

“Aden.”

Lexa smiles, “Aden, do you know what it takes to be a queen?”

The boy jerks his head ‘no.’

“Being queen is challenging, I won’t lie to you. But I’ll tell you a secret. Are you ready?” The boy nods eagerly. “The most important part is not the crown or the money…. It’s the love. If you love and care for others _and_ you love and care for yourself, then you are as much a queen as I am.”

“Really?”

_“Really.”_

Clarke leans forward and slides her hand into Lexa’s before she is even aware of making the conscious decision. Her fingers weave through the queen’s and when Lexa pushes up from the floor, Clarke stands, rising with her. The Matron urges the children to thank them before leading the pair towards the door.

“Is that your Christmas tree?” Clarke pauses, glancing at the sad, silver shrub that sits lopsided on a roundtable. Its boughs are bent, no ornaments decorate its surface, and like the rest of what they have seen of the shelter, it is old and passed its use. Then another observation hits Clarke squarely in the chest. “There aren’t any presents.”

The matron nods, “Unfortunately, don’t have the funds for holiday gifts. The budget is always tight and what we do get is always earmarked for certain things.”

Clarke frowns, “What about the money from the charity gala? Surely there are sufficient funds for a few extra things here and there.”

The matron shifts uncomfortably, glancing at the queen. But when Lexa indicates that she should continue, the older woman admits, “Almost all of our donations, the crown’s included, arrive with some specification. Use for ‘food.’ Use for ‘clothes.’ We’ve received more donations for ‘school supplies’ this year than any other and even though our money for clothing the children has run short we cannot dip into that larger donation.”

“So,” Lexa’s hand tightens around Clarke’s, “what you are saying is that you have very little authority to use the money in ways that best serve the shelter?”

“None, your majesty. I don’t mean to be rude and please forgive the inconvenience—”

“The truth is never an inconvenience. Thank you for bringing this to our attention.”

Clarke breathes in and tries to bite back the smile tugging at her lips. _Ours._ Lexa had said ‘our attention’ as if she intended to find a solution with Clarke… _No_ , the blonde reminds herself sharply, _with Eliza._ How had all of this become so confusing?

When the matron finally bids them farewell, Lexa leads Clarke into the courtyard. But the blonde barely pays attention as they leave the old building behind. Or as they pass by the weathered stone fountain. Even as they enter the arched passage leading back to the street, Clarke is busy worrying about this _mess_ she has somehow gotten herself into. She is so distracted that her mind does not register Lexa’s abrupt halt. Not at first. Not until the queen presses Clarke against the stone wall, stepping into the blonde with her head bent to whisper.

“Tell me the truth,” Lexa’s green eyes seem to search her soul. “Now that we’re alone, you can. You don’t have to worry.”

And maybe it’s because Clarke is already thinking about her falseness or how to explain this insane mix-up, but in that moment Clarke is certain she has been caught red-handed. “Lexa, _I can explain_ …”

“Good,” the queen smiles. “I want to know what you think.”

“What I….” Clarke doesn’t know what to make of that.

“What do you think we should do? About the shelter, the charity gala, all of it.”

Clarke breathes out, closing her eyes for a second to calm her fast-beating heart. Then she meets Lexa’s vivid gaze, “The ball was a wonderful way to raise money.”

“But?”

“But, that’s it. Money. I think we need to get more involved. Meet more children. And staff. We should try to understand the needs of the shelter rather than dictating their expenditure. I mean, we gift them for being a good organization, but then watch them with ‘our’ money like they’re thieves. They cannot be both.”

Lexa shakes her head slowly, eyes fixed on Clarke’s, “You are _magnificent_.”

“You’re not so bad yourself.”

“Did you mean it?”

Clarke swallows, holding Lexa’s gaze as the queen steps even closer. So close that the lapel of her fawn suit brushes against Clarke’s red coat. So close that they are almost touching.

“Mean what?”

“That you love me.”

Clarke’s breath catches in her throat. Then she inhales sharply as Lexa’s gaze darkens, flitting lower. But any response remains lodged in her throat, trapped under her rapid pulse.

“Did you?” Lexa prompts again, leaning closer, her face mere inches from Clarke’s.

 _“Yes,”_ she whispers, the word a quiet plea against her lips. Clarke doesn’t even know if it’s true. In some rational part of her brain, she hopes that it’s not. But the word still falls from her mouth easily, faster than any other confession she’s ever made. And keeping her palms pressed against the stone wall at her back is all Clarke can manage. Because every fiber of her being is thrumming to life beneath Lexa’s gaze, beneath the faint possibility that the queen might kiss Clarke again.

Like glowing embers igniting a raging flame. That’s what it is like when Lexa finally bends down and captures Clarke’s mouth. Because Lexa’s lips are never as insistent, never quite as hungry as Clarke’s seem to be. The queen holds Clarke’s hips against the wall and brushes their lips together with the briefest pressure, pulling back when Clarke tries to take more. Clarke’s lips follow the queen like she would follow water in a desert — instinctive and utterly relentless. But embers always win, always outlast the flame. And Clarke finally relaxes against the wall, letting Lexa worship her with soft, slow kisses.

Her eyes are closed, body limp, when Lexa pulls back to murmur, “You’re different.”

“Hmm?”

“There is something different about you.”

Clarke’s eyes snap open, “What do you mean?”

“I just—” the queen pauses, shaking her head. A frown furrows Lexa’s brows and she lets out a short laugh. “Never mind.”

Clarke breathes out, nodding. She straightens, clearing her throat. “We should—” she gestures awkwardly in the direction of the street.

“Right,” Lexa blinks, stepping back and sliding her hands into the pockets of her trousers. Clarke turns down the passageway and tries not to notice how her body reacts as Lexa falls into step beside her, how it thrums steadily. They walk side by side without touching and Clarke focuses again on calming her heartbeat, only managing to breathe deeply once they’ve stepped onto the sidewalk and back into the wintery sunshine.

The black limo stands stationary next to the pavement, its green flags flapping happily in the breeze. Raven and Murphy wait beside the car, the latter leaning on its hood. And while the brunette’s expression is one of amusement, Murphy looks rather like spoiled milk. His vexed expression twists into one of relief as Clarke and Lexa appear and he steps forward with a casual bow.

Raven bobs up and down with a smirk, “How did the visit go?”

Lexa glances at Clarke, “It was very… _educational_.”

“Sounds thrilling,” Murphy remarks dryly. But Clarke’s gaze is fixed on Lexa, trying to decipher what the queen means by that. _You’re different,_ she had said in the archway. Could she possibly suspect? But Lexa only arches her brows at Murphy before continuing and each word from the queen relieves a bit of the tension in Clarke’s shoulders.

“The opposite of thrilling, actually. The children don’t have any presents or a real Christmas tree for that matter.”

“Unless we do it!” Clarke gasps, turning to Lexa,

“What?”

“We could go to a toy shop and pick out the gifts and then wrap them ourselves—” 

“That’s hardly necessary, your grace,” Murphy interjects.

“—and bake cookies! We’d have to bake cookies for the children.”

“Bake? You want us to bake?” Lexa looks at Clarke skeptically and the hesitancy in her voice is clear.

Clarke laughs, “Don’t worry, I’ll teach you.”

“Eliza, this is quite an ambitious task…”

“But we _do_ have the rest of the day free, so…”

Lexa raises her eyes to the sky and then smiles softly, shaking her head. “So we had better get started.”

Clarke lets out a delighted shriek and throws her arms around Lexa, pulling the queen into a hug. It lasts only a few moments before Clarke realizes that she is pressing herself completely against the monarch. Her mind flashes back to the tunnel and the kiss and she has to step away before her face can flush as scarlet as her coat.

“Sorry,” she mutters, tucking her blonde hair back into place.

Lexa’s lips tilt up, “It’s alright.”

And it is the queen this time who pulls her closer, fingers lacing through Clarke’s to lead the blonde into the back of the limo. Clarke smiles as she shifts in, oblivious to the bickering which has begun outside the vehicle.

“Let me have the keys,” Raven murmurs. “Last time you forgot which side of the road people drive on.”

“That’s because you tried to grab my—”

“Don’t say inappropriate things in front of royalty, Murphy.”

“—while I was driving!”

“Fine,” Raven sniffs. “You can drive. The nearest toy store is Frederick’s on Main Street. Do you think you can manage that?”

“I’ll do my best, Reyes.”

_**Main Street, Wembley, Polis - December 22nd 2018 - 13:45 CET  
** _

“When, in all of your ‘free time’ which I never saw, did you take horseback riding lessons?” Bellamy demands, twisting towards Eliza as they walk down the snow-covered pavement. Madi swings between them, using their arms as monkey bars.

“I never said I took lessons. It’s not _that_ hard, Bell.”

“Okay, yeah, ‘not that hard,’” he mimes quotations. “You were riding figure-eights around us while Madi kept threatening to dive bomb from the horse every time we passed a large pile of snow.”

The little girl pitches herself forward on their arms, “They looked like marshmallows!”

“Just admit it,” Eliza laughs. “Your ego is a little wounded because you aren’t a natural like me.”

“That is _not_ the reason—”

“Uh-huh.”

“Clarke, c’mon.”

“Nope, I’m not giving you this one. I won it, fair and square.”

“Look, I’m just saying—”

“That you should work with a better baker. You know I agree,” a low, sultry voice brings the trio to a halt on the sidewalk. A tall, brown-haired woman leans against the side of a cafe, a steaming beverage in her hand. Her entire figure is draped in a fur-lined coat like something out of a magazine. Eliza frowns, glancing from the newcomer to the sour look on Bellamy’s face. The woman’s sharp gaze is fixed on him and the glint in her eyes makes Eliza bristle. Still, years of breeding win out.

“I’m sorry,” she smiles politely. “Do we know you?”

The woman sneers, “Funny.”

“I wasn’t trying to be.”

“We’ll see if you feel so clever when you lose the competition.”

Eliza’s eyes narrow before shifting towards Bellamy. “Should I know her?” But he just crosses his arms and smiles smugly like Eliza has just delivered some savage insult instead of asking a simple question.

“Echo Azgeda,” the woman smirks, pushing off the wall. “I can remind you though.” She raises her steaming mug like a salute as if Eliza is supposed to know what that means. But it’s Madi who lets out a feral little growl and lunges forward only to be caught by Bellamy’s strong arms. Eliza’s eyes widen on the coffee cup. _Clarke’s apron_. When they first ran into each other, Clarke’s apron had a stain on it. So this woman…

The duchess returns the smirk, “You’re not going to do anything.”

“Oh?” Echo challenges, coming to stand in front of her. “And why is that? Because you have your little guardians with you? Please, like I—”

“No,” Eliza states simply, completely calm. “You’re not going to do anything because even your gesticular admission about spilling coffee on me borders on intentional sabotage, which if reported would result in your immediate removal from the competition…” Eliza pauses for emphasis. “And I don’t think you want that. But do let me know if you change your mind. I’m happy to file a complaint.”

Echo smiles tightly, “Didn’t know you were such a bitc—”

“Look,” the duchess cuts her off. “Just steer clear, okay? I’d rather have the satisfaction of beating you in the competition. But if you continue to harass me or my friends, I won’t hesitate.”

The woman just raises her eyebrows before stalking away, brushing past Bellamy. He frowns, opening his palm, and then sighs. A small piece of paper flutters in the breeze with clear, black digits scrawled across it.

“Seriously?” Eliza mutters, trying to stuff down the annoyance which shoots through her.

“She is persistent, I’ll give her that,” Bellamy chuckles and Eliza doesn’t miss his backward glance.

“Whatever,” Madi grumbles, breaking free of Bellamy’s other arm. “You should have let me at her.”

“Then _both_ Clarke and I would have been kicked out of the competition.”

“But Octavia said—”

Bellamy groans, “I’m not sure I want to know what my sister told you. Next time Octavia gives you advice, just remember that I said—”

“I know, I know! Ninety-five percent of what Octavia says is _bullshit_ —”

Eliza coughs, trying not to laugh at Bellamy’s horrified expression. His mouth gapes open until he finally splutters, “I’m pretty sure I did not say _that_.”

“Well, it’s what you _meant_. Octavia also says you should be able to ‘read between the lines’ and—”

“Hey,” Eliza bends down, whispering conspiratorially in the kid’s ear. “I think they’re selling candy-canes up ahead.”

“I’ve never had one,” Madi shrugs. “They look weird. Why would you eat something that people use for walking? Who walks with canes that small? Santa’s elves?”

Eliza laughs at the rapid-fire questions which spout from the kid’s mouth, then replies with a wink, “It’s always good to try new things.”

“I guess… can I get one, dad?” the kid glances up at Bellamy and her expression transforms into an angelic smile.

Bellamy rolls his eyes, sighing, “Why can I never say no to you?”

“Because I’m the best!”

“You mean I’m the best, right?” Bellamy calls after Madi as she scampers down the pavement. He groans, “I have to find a new babysitter when we get back to Chicago. I think Octavia is intentionally turning my child into a heathen.”

Eliza laughs, linking her arm with his as they keep walking. “Don’t make her grow up too fast. A bit of wildness never hurt anyone.”

“Really? You’re always saying that my house looks like a pigsty whenever you come over.”

“Eh, I think there can be beauty in chaos.” 

Bellamy glances down at her, “This vacation is relaxing you _way_ more than I thought it would. Even back there,” he jerks his head towards the cafe, “with Echo, I mean. I’ve seen you turn five different shades of red when you’re angry, but the way you just _explained_ to Echo how she would be completely fucked… I’ve never seen you do that before.”

She rolls her eyes, shoving him lightly. It does little more than knock them both off course. They laugh and keep walking. Bellamy twists his free arm to read his faded leather wristwatch and then glances down the street after Madi.

“That’s the third time you’ve checked the time,” Eliza points out.

He stiffens and then lets out a rough laugh, shrugging, “I just want to save time to see the Beaufort fountain. Around three o’clock if we can.”

“Fine with me.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” she smiles, meeting his soft brown eyes. Their shared gaze lingers a bit longer than necessary and Eliza finds her cheeks growing warm. She clears her throat as they continue down the street. And despite the dull pang in her stomach, she tries to ask the next question with a casual lightness. “So… are you going to call her?”

“Who?” Bellamy frowns, confused for a moment. “Oh! You mean, Echo. No.”

“Why not?”

He raises an eyebrow, “You mean other than the fact that she’s been nothing but a bitch?”

“What if she was nice? Just for the sake of the argument. Would you call her back?” Eliza presses, not looking at him.

“I don’t know…” Bellamy shrugs, “I guess. It wouldn’t hurt, right?”

“Right,” Eliza bites her lip, failing to ignore that swift pinch in her gut this time.

“Would you want me to? Call her back, I mean….if she was nice?”

“It’s not really my place to say.”

Bellamy stops walking and because her arm is linked to his, Eliza is forced to pause as well. He shakes his head, frustration plain, “But you brought it up, so you _are_ saying something. I just don’t know what.”

“I’m not!” Eliza extracts her arm from his, turning to face him. She crosses both over her chest, feeling suddenly vulnerable.

“This is about yesterday, right? When we both talked about— about moving on—”

“No,” Eliza laughs sharply, throat closing. “I just wondered about Echo since she’s so _obviously_ interested in you.”

Bellamy crosses his arms, mirroring her gesture. “And how does that make you feel?”

_“What?”_

“I just want to know why you brought this up.”

“I told you—’

“No, you deflected. There’s a difference, Clarke.”

“Forget it, okay?”

“I can’t!” Bellamy steps forward, lowering his voice. “You’ve always been so clear about our friendship, but this week…”

“What about this week?” Eliza’s heart jumps into her throat, beating wildly.

“Excuse me,” a cheery voice breaks through their bubble, snapping the tension like a brittle sheet of ice. “Are you Clarke Griffin?”

Main Street tumbles back into focus, the noises of the crowd and the whir of passing cars. And it’s only then that Eliza realizes how singular her world had become in those brief moments. She blinks, twisting towards the voice which turns out to be a young man with a camera and a notepad.

“Sorry, who are you?” Eliza asks, glancing around to make sure he is actually talking to her.

“My name is Brian Wilson, I’m with the Wembley Review. We’re doing a piece on the baking competition and I would love to get a few words from you. Rumor has it, you’re the one to beat.”

“Really?” Eliza glances at Bellamy then looks away quickly. “That’s flattering.”

“You own a bakery in Chicago right?” The man places his pen to the paper, waiting for her response.

“Yes, it’s called The Dropship. We do all sorts of baked goods, but our specialty is cake,” Eliza rattles off the information Clarke told her.

“Wonderful. And what would you say is the biggest influence on your success?”

Eliza opens her mouth, unsure of how to respond. Her eyes slide again to Bellamy and his own brown ones stare back, unwavering. She finally breathes out, “He is… Bellamy Blake.” She turns back to the reporter, “We’re a team. And I couldn’t do any of it without his support and assistance. Truly.”

“Great,” the reporter jots this down and then raises his camera. “I’ll just need a photo and then you won’t see me until the competition. If you just stand—”

“I don’t really like to be photographed…”

“Oh, well maybe a group one then? That’s it, if you just squeeze in there.”

The reporter motions Bellamy into Eliza’s side, directing him to put an arm around her. Eliza stiffens, but mimics the gesture and leans her head awkwardly against Bellamy’s shoulder. His jacket smells like oranges… and cinnamon… and faintly of hay from their ride this morning. Her throat tightens, but a loud huff rips from her all the same when a smaller figure barrels into them.

“Wait for me!” Madi squeezes between the two and pokes her head out, grinning.

“You’re a little too short for the frame, I’m afraid.”

Bellamy bends down, “Wanna climb on my back, squirt?”

Madi hops on, more than willing. And when Bellamy stands, sliding back into Eliza’s side, the little girl throws an arm around her shoulder too. The duchess melts beneath the affection and a genuine smile pulls at her lips as Eliza glances up at the two of them. The reporter snaps his photograph and then shakes their hands, even Madi’s at the kid’s insistence, before heading up the street.

Back on the ground, the young girl spins and grabs onto Eliza, “Come on! I heard someone talking about a _huge_ toy store down the road!”

“Really?” she asks curiously. “I’ve never been to a toy store before.”

“Clarke—” Bellamy starts, looking up from his watch with an expression of tender exasperation.

“She meant that she has never been to a Polisian toy store before. Right, Clarke?” Madi’s fingernails pinch Eliza’s skin and the woman nods.

“Exactly.”

Madi pulls on her hand again, but Eliza glances back, “Look, about before—”

“It’s fine,” Bellamy shrugs, his hands stuffed into his jean pockets. “We both got a bit carried away.”

“Yeah,” Eliza swallows, holding his gaze for a moment longer. She finally turns back to Madi and forces her smile to spread wider. “Lead the way.”

The kid pulls her down the street at a breakneck speed with Bellamy trailing slowly behind them. And even though Eliza tells herself not to, she glances back more than once, her eyes searching for his tall, dark figure amidst the crowd.

“Stop worrying,” Madi insists, tugging on her hand. “He won’t call her.”

“What?”

“Eliza, you look just like Clarke looked after she drank some bad milk—”

“Hey!”

“—and you have ever since we ran into that Echo lady.”

“I have not!”

“Yeah, whatever,” Madi rolls her eyes. “We both know you like my dad.”

“I—” Eliza stops, a flush rising to her cheeks even as her mouth works double-time.“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Sure. You _don’t_ smile at him _all the time._ ”

“I don’t—”

“And you _didn’t_ make moon-eyes when he was having trouble with the horse—”

“I didn’t—”

“Okay, Eliza,” Madi crosses her arms, looking very much like an annoyed Bellamy in that moment. “You _‘didn’t.’_ But I’m just saying the phone thing is not a problem.”

“I— Wait, what do you mean ‘not a problem’?”

Madi grins and pulls something flat and shiny from her jacket pocket.

“What is—” Eliza gasps, mouth falling open. “Is that Echo’s phone?”

“Yep.”

“Oh my god, Madi, what—” Eliza shakes her head, eyes wide, as the little girl tucks the phone into Eliza’s pocket. An uncontrollable blaze of satisfaction rushes through the duchess so quickly that it makes her dizzy. Eliza takes a breath, closing her eyes for a moment. This is completely unethical. Wrong in so many ways… “Madi, you — stealing is bad, very bad. Okay? Repeat after me, BAD. Got it? — but also _wow_ … ”

“What are you two gabbing about?”

Eliza whirls around as Bellamy’s deep timbre resonates behind them. He walks the last few feet, catching up with them and giving the two a suspicious look.

“You know, girl stuff,” Eliza shrugs casually.

Madi nods, “Yeah, dad. Clarke’s got it covered. I wanted to know about periods. What did you call it, Clarke? Menstrooo—”

“Menstruation.”

“Right, _menstruation_ ,” Madi says the word slowly, then smiles up at her father who has turned a particularly uncomfortable shade of yellow.

Bellamy clears his throat, “Right. Good. That’s good. Carry on, Clarke. I’ll just— keep walking to the store.”

Eliza bites her lips, fighting off a smile, and opens up one hand behind her back as Bellamy continues at a much quicker pace. Madi’s small hand slaps down over her open palm, a hidden high-five. The duchess glances down at the kid and whispers quietly, “Just for the record, lying is also _very_ bad.”

Madi just raises her eyebrows at Eliza, her gaze trailing towards her father before dragging back to the woman.

“Yeah, yeah, okay,” Eliza mutters before dragging the kid into her side and beginning to walk after Bellamy’s retreating form. She raises her voice louder, “And so the lining of your uterus will shed once every month…”

The duchess chuckles, watching as Bellamy’s shoulders stiffen, and then winks down at the devious, endearing kid at her side.

_**Main Street, Wembley, Polis - December 22nd 2018 - 14:00 CET** _

Frederick’s Toy Emporium is as grand as the name advertises, standing three stories tall and spanning nearly a block of Main Street. Clarke and company occupy the first floor, frozen barely through the entrance by the sheer enormity of the shop.

“So,” Raven braces her hands against her hips, scanning the colorful maze of toys before them. “How are we doing this?”

Murphy crosses his arms, “Yes, what are your orders, Heda?”

Lexa sighs, “I told you not to call me that.”

“Heda?” Clarke glances between them. “What’s a heda?”

He smirks, “It’s her majesty’s codename. You know _‘Heda has left the building. Heda is enroute. ETA ten minutes.’_ That sort of thing. It’s for security purposes.”

“Do I have a codename?” Clarke asks curiously.

“Yes, but it’s complicated.”

“How can it be complicated?”

Murphy turns to stare at her, “We used to call you _Princess_ , but this week everyone has taken a liking to _Wanheda_ and now no one knows which to say.”

Clarke clears her throat and glances at Raven, beginning to feel exposed under the man’s sharp scrutiny. She claps her hands together and says matter-of-factly, “We should divide and conquer. Grab a cart and just fill it with whatever looks fun!”

Lexa squares her shoulders like a soldier preparing for battle and marches over to retrieve a trolley. It’s endearing, really — the queen’s determination. But Clarke can tell Lexa is uncomfortable; there’s a sharpness to her eyes, a vigilance, as the two women weave their way through the stacks of toys. Almost as if the queen believes one of the many large nutcracker dolls might come to life and attack at any moment. It’s only after ten minutes of Clarke rambling happily about different board games that Lexa’s shoulders relax and her mouth softens into a smile. She reaches out tentatively from behind the cart.

“Have you ever played this one?”

Clarke twists around, eyeing the colorful box. “Risk? It’s a behemoth game. Takes hours. But everyone has played it at some point… You haven’t?”

Lexa shakes her head as she reads the back of the box. Clarke reaches out and tosses an identical copy into their cart. “This one’s for us then.” 

The queen smiles and pushes the cart after Clarke as they continue down the aisle. A sharp inhale leaves Lexa and the queen abandons the cart, and Clarke, in favor of a box of wooden swords. She hefts one up, holding it in both hands before her. “I always wanted one of these!”

Clarke laughs, “You never had a toy sword? Seems like something every budding monarch would own.”

“My parents never liked weapons, real or fake.” Lexa shrugs, bringing the sword down in an arc and spinning it in her hand. She glances up at Clarke with a goofy, child-like grin.

“Surely, they wouldn’t have objected to a young girl’s daydreams about defending her country.”

Lexa smirks, “Oh, I had plenty of those. I called myself the _Commander…_ I even used to make Anya pretend to be my second when we were kids.”

“Really?”

“Yes, but we only had butter knives. These would have been much better.”

 _“Of course,”_ Clarke nods, her tone teasing. “A wooden sword is infinitely more suitable for defense than a butter knife.”

“Actually,” Lexa twirls the toy back into its box. “As my father wisely taught me, diplomacy is the best tool… though not _quite_ as much fun.”

Clarke smiles, “Why don’t we grab a few of these for the shelter? And maybe a few princess tiaras as well.”

The queen snorts as Clarke throws in a couple of the pink, sparkly crowns. The blonde sticks her tongue out at the monarch and when Lexa only arches her brows in response, Clarke rolls her eyes. The two weave up and down three more aisles, reaching the back of the store with their cart piled obscenely high. They round the last aisle and Clarke lets out a crow of delight, running ahead. Space has been cleared in this corner of the store and a white plastic sheet with multi-colored dots spreads across the floor.

“What is _that_?”

Clarke spins around, mouth open in disbelief, “You’ve never played Twister?”

“No, but I doubt—”

“Take your shoes off,” Clarke points at Lexa’s feet, her voice lowering in challenge. _“Right now.”_

“Excuse me? I’m not going to remove my shoes—”

“Lexa,” Clarke growls.

The queen tilts her head, _“Eliza.”_

Clarke stalks up to the queen, bringing them chest to chest. “Are you afraid?”

“I’m not afra—”

“Then prove it.”

Lexa’s eyes widen and she stares at Clarke for a long, drawn-out moment. Then determination flashes across her face and she kicks off her black Louis Vuittons without breaking eye contact. Clarke laughs and bends down to remove her own straps before leading the queen to the plastic sheet. After explaining the rules, the two stand on opposite ends of the sheet and Clarke spins the hand of the Twister clock.

“Right foot blue,” she calls out, leveling her gaze on Lexa.

Two aisles over, Raven can hear peals of laughter emanating from the back corner of the shop, but her mind is too distracted to make sense of it. Murphy, as ever, is being a complete twat.

“I know you’re hiding something,” he drawls, using a ping-pong paddle to wack a stuffed teddy into their cart. He cups his hands over his mouth and makes a loud whirring sound, “Goal! Ten points to Team I’m-Not-An-Idiot-Raven.”

The brunette rolls her eyes and swipes her hand down the shelf so that three more stuffed bears fall into the trolley. “You’re not an idiot, Murphy. You’re just a paranoid fuck who thinks everyone is out to get him.”

Murphy smirks, “That’s not what you said last night—”

“Ugh, this is why we have a strict ‘no talking’ policy, Murphy. Because you open that big, fat mouth of yours and ruin it.”

“Again, not what you said last—”

“Oh, grow up.”

“I’m just stating facts, Reyes,” he shrugs. “You’re hiding something and I bet that it has to do with your precious little duchess.”

Raven sneers, “Really? That’s what you’ve got?”

“So you don’t think that her grace has been acting rather odd lately?”

“Not particularly.”

“Oh? Has she always been this… _different?”_

“Has the queen always been so… _ordinary?”_ She tosses back at him, throwing a box of crayons along with her comment. Murphy catches the box deftly and drops it into their basket.

“Look, I know—”

His words are drowned out as they round the corner and a shriek followed by rough laughter draws their attention. The queen and the duchess tumble backwards and land on the floor in a heap, their bare feet sticking out.

Clarke heaves in a breath, her chest shaking from laughter and water streaming out of her eyes. She lies sprawled over the queen, back pressed against Lexa’s front. And Clarke can feel Lexa shake beneath her as the queen’s ragged breath sweep across her earlobe. The blonde tilts her head over the queen’s shoulder, trying to gain control of her own lungs.

“Having fun, your grace?”

Clarke glances up to see Murphy and Raven staring down at them, looks of perplexed amusement painting both of their faces. She flushes and reaches a hand down to lower her cream pencil-skirt from where it has ridden up her thighs. Lexa lets out a loud exhale as Clarke tries to sit up and then the blonde’s breathless _‘sorry’_ sends them both back into fits of laughter.

Finally, the two manage to roll off of each other and to their feet. Clarke slips her shoes back on, biting her lip before turning around. Out of instinct, she straightens the lapel of Lexa’s jacket and then swallows as the queen brushes a strand of blonde hair behind her ear.

Clarke clears her throat and then glances at the overflowing carts, “I think we have more than enough toys for the children. Shall we?”

Lexa places a hand on Clarke’s back, letting the blonde lead the way out of the maze as Murphy and Raven follow with the carts. And maybe it’s because of that touch or her keen awareness of Lexa’s proximity, but she doesn’t hear the familiar voices growing louder. Not until she rounds the corner and her gaze is assaulted by the three very familiar faces who have just entered the store.

Clarke freezes at the end of the aisle, eyes widening as they meet Eliza’s identical blue gaze. Lexa, Raven, and Murphy pull short at Clarke’s abrupt stop and mercifully remain hidden within the tall stacks of toys. But in that moment Clarke forgets how to breathe. Her gaze slides to a smaller pair of dark eyes, wide and panicked in Madi’s flushed face.

In the next four seconds, they move faster than she ever thought possible. Madi and Eliza twist around to block Bellamy’s view as Clarke wiggles the ring from her left hand and spins, pushing Lexa back the way they just came.

“I must have dropped my engagement ring,” Clarke says breathlessly. And she doesn’t have to fake the panic on her face as she rushes to the back corner once more. The queen seems happy to follow her, but Murphy mentions something about the carts and waiting in line at the till. Clarke almost yells at him, but he and Raven disappear around the corner before she can open her mouth. _Fuck._ Her stomach somersaults.

On the other side of the aisle Raven’s heart explodes into her throat as she spies the threesome arguing at the front of the store. The distinct flaxen hair of the duchess nearly glows in the shop’s ample light. And if Eliza turns around… the jig is up. Murphy will know.

“Arghh!” Raven bends down, one hand on her bad knee.

“What? What is it?” Murphy abandons his cart and is by her side in an instant. And if Raven wasn’t so annoyed or her heart beating so fast from adrenaline she might have noticed the blatant concern on the man’s face.

“Knee,” Raven points down, wincing. An exaggeration, but only partially fake since the damn thing always gives her some trouble in this cold climate. “Muscle spasm.”

“What can I do?” Murphy kneels by her feet, looking up for direction.

“Can you…? Just put pressure here.”

He begins to massage the muscles just above her kneecap and Raven lets out a sharp hiss of air, trying to nod encouragingly at him despite the firm panic rising. She looks over Murphy’s head to see that the duchess has _still_ not left the store. A slight twist of her head and Raven spies Clarke and the queen crawling along the floor, searching under boxes of toys. Then the brunette looks down at Murphy, his gaze intent of her knee. Raven pinches her eyes shut. They are screwed. Three ways to Sunday this time.

_**Frederick’s Toy Emporium, Wembley, Polis - December 22nd 2018 - 14:35 CET** _

“We walked fifteen minutes just to get here and now you guys don’t even want to look around?” Bellamy frowns at the pair.

“We’re not going to buy anything, right?” Eliza pushes out quickly. “I mean we already have all of our presents. Why tempt ourselves to spend more money?”

“Yeah, dad.” Madi nods, sagely. “What she said. Money. We’ve got to think about the money.”

Bellamy narrows his gaze on his daughter, “Since when do you say ‘no’ to more presents?”

“I—” Madi falters, looking up at Eliza.

“Come on,” the duchess laughs nervously. “I mean what’s a toy shop when we can be outside! I think the sun was poking through the clouds before we walked in.”

“Clarke, you just said how you thought your fingers were going to fall off from frostbite.”

Eliza grimaces, her brain completely blank. “But I— I—”

“Seriously, what is up with you guys?” Bellamy gives them a strange look and begins to walk further into the store. “Let’s just have a quick—”

“Wait!” Eliza raises her hands, eyes catching on Raven and the brown-haired man she knows to be Murphy. Where had Clarke disappeared to? If Bellamy saw her… “Didn’t you say we had to be at the Beaufort fountain by three?”

“Yeah, but it’s…” Bellamy glances down at his watch. “Well, I guess it is getting close—”

“Yep, too close. Let’s not cut it short, right? What are you always saying about me? Always prepared. We wouldn’t want to show up late for whatever it is that you have planned. Come on!”

“Yeah,” Madi pipes in weakly.

Bellamy stares at the pair, then shakes his head and walks back towards the two. “Alright. You win.”

“Yes! Winning, we love winning!” Eliza fists the air before grabbing Bellamy’s hand and Madi’s and quite literally dragging them both out of the store. She leads them up the street the way they came and only stops after they’ve put three blocks between them and Frederick’s Troubling Emporium.

“Now,” she says cheerfully. “Which way to the fountain?”

Bellamy raises his eyebrows and points with his free hand down a side street.

“Great.” Eliza jerks her head and begins the same fast pace.

“Hey, hey, slow down there,” he tugs back a little. “And could you maybe lighten your grip, champ? I think you’re about to crack bone.”

Eliza flushes hotly and releases her death-grip on Bellamy and Madi. She smiles guiltily as both shake out their abused fingers. “Sorry.”

“What was all that?” Bellamy asks as they continue down the side street.

Eliza falls back, letting him lead the way. “I just— I thought I saw Finn for a second.”

_“What?”_

“Yeah,” she clears her throat, noticing the smug, ‘now whose lying’ look that Madi gives her. “…it probably wasn’t him, but I…. I just didn’t want to risk it, you know?”

Bellamy reaches back and brushes her shoulder with his large hand, “You could have just said that Clarke. I would have understood.”

“Yeah… I should have thought of that.”

He squeezes her shoulder and then lets go, looking down at his watch for the millionth time that day. At the next crossroads, they turn right and head into an older section of the city. The streets become cobblestoned and the buildings merge, leaning closer together and sharing walls.

“Where are we going?” Madi asks after they’ve been walking for more than a few minutes; the side streets are quieter and there is less excitement to hold her attention.

“The Beaufort fountain, remember squirt?”

Eliza frowns, “Why are we going there again?”

“I just want to see it,” Bellamy shrugs. “Ancient mythical fountain and all that jazz.”

“Who knew you were such a history buff?”

“You did, Clarke. I majored in it.”

“It was a joke, _obviously_ ,” Eliza mumbles, ignoring the amused look on Madi’s face. Bellamy looks down at his watch again and then lengthens his stride noticeably.

Eliza frowns, “What’s the big hurry?”

“There’s a particular time when the light is supposed to be the best.”

“At three in the afternoon?”

“Uh, yeah, I read it in the guidebook,” Bellamy smiles back at her sheepishly.

“You read the guidebook?”

“Yeah, there’s a legend which explains why the fountain runs year round, even in winter. They say it’s because of the strength of Wembley’s holiday spirit.”

“That’s sweet,” Eliza smiles.

“It’s probably just an underground spring…”

She rolls her eyes at him, “Spoilsport. I like the legend better.”

Bellamy twists, meeting her gaze, and Eliza feels the last bit of tension from earlier slip away as he says, “Me too.”

The side street opens up into a small square with a fountain in the middle. It’s not a particularly big water feature, nor is the stone carved in any special way. It’s fairly rustic with just a simple spout that shoots waters into a basin below. More of a historic watering hole than anything else. And the winter sun is already low in the sky so no special ray of light shines through. Eliza is about to remark on the disappointing spectacle when her eyes light on a woman who stands alone by the water trough.

A sharp squeal leaves the kid beside her as Madi tears across the cobbled street towards the solitary figure. The high-pitched noise pulls the woman’s attention around and she twists, turning towards the child. Eliza cannot tell if her hair is more light brown or dark blonde, but even from this distance, she can see there are small streaks of grey near her temples. Then it clicks. And her heart stops beating as she recognizes that face — one of the most frequent from Clarke’s photos.

_“Merry Christmas, Clarke.”_

Eliza breathes in sharply at Bellamy’s whispered words, turning to face him. His tan face is split in a wide grin and his dark eyes twinkle with that familiar crease.

“You…” Words fail Eliza as she stares back at the woman who now has Madi picked up and balanced against her hip. “I…”

Bellamy chuckles, “Just go.”

Eliza nods and begins to walk forward, her footsteps faltering and light. Abby, Clarke’s mother, faces the duchess and a large smile spreads over her features. And maybe it’s the light or the lack of it which makes Eliza see something familiar in those dark eyes and thick brows and that strong nose. Everything inside of her twists sharply and her lungs seize up even as her feet carry her forward. And though it doesn’t make sense, though _none_ of this makes sense, tears begin to seep from her eyes. Slow, steady tears which fall in earnest by the time she reaches the older woman.

“Oh baby, don’t cry,” Abby sets down Madi and engulfs Eliza in a tight embrace. Her soothing voice whispers over the blonde’s raw nerves, another piece fitting back inside some empty place within her. Because it sounds _so_ familiar.

Eliza sniffles, her cheek pressed into Abby’s downy coat and her arms wrapped in a vice around this woman she has never met. Maybe it’s because she misses her own mom. Maybe it’s because she feels guilty for taking this moment from Clarke. Those are the things Eliza tells herself to rationalizes this strange, familiar feeling which wells up inside of her.

“Hey,” Abby pulls back, brushing the hair out of Eliza’s face. “Hey, I’m right here. I’m right here, Clarke.”

“I know,” Eliza nods and lets out a short laugh as the tears begin to slow.

“Did you cut your hair?”

A longer laugh leaves her, “Yeah. Everyone is quite surprised.”

“I like it.”

“Really?”

“Absolutely,” Abby states, pulling her in for another short hug before stepping around to embrace Bellamy.

“Hi, Mrs. Griffin.”

“Oh, stop. You know better than to call me that.”

Eliza wipes at her wet eyes with her jacket as Bellamy’s deep laugh rings out. She turns a watery smile on the two of them and Madi who slinks up to hug Abby firmly around the waist.

“Come on, squirt,” Bellamy chuckles, gesturing his daughter towards the fountain. “Let’s take a little walk.”

Eliza watches them stroll to the center of the square, before turning back to Abby. “How?” Eliza shakes her head. “I mean— _How?_ ”

“Bellamy reached out before you guys left Chicago. He wanted to make sure I could be here to watch you win the competition—”

“I haven’t won anything yet…”

“But you will, we both know it.”

Eliza’s throat tightens, “Bellamy—”

“Paid for my flight, yes.”

“The whole thing?”

“Well, he asked me to say he only helped out, but yes, the whole thing. So mum's the word, alright?”

Eliza nods, warm tears seeping back into her eyes. She laughs, shaking them clear. “This is amazing.” She can’t wait to tell Clarke. “Do you have a place to stay already? You should come stay at the rental house! There’s a _huge_ couch or you can sleep with me—”

Abby chuckles, slipping her arm through Eliza’s and patting the blonde’s shoulder, “No, no… I think I’ll give you two some space.”

Eliza frowns, glancing at Clarke’s mom before turning her gaze back towards the fountain where Bellamy holds Madi’s hand, steadying the girl while she walks around the rim. “It’s really not an issue. We have plenty of room.”

“I meant metaphysical _space,_ Clarke.”

Eliza snorts, “Madi’s staying with us—”

“The kid has a bedtime, doesn’t she?”

 _“Mom!”_ The word falls unconsciously from Eliza’s lips as the blood rushes to her cheeks.

Abby laughs, “What? You know I’ve always liked, Bellamy. It’s a shame you two haven’t given it a shot.”

“I— What?” Eliza’s cheeks redden further.

“He’s one of a kind, Clarke.”

“I know!”

“Do you?”

“Of course. I’m not blind,” Eliza mutters, crossing her arms against the flurry of snow caught in the wind.

“So…?”

“It is _none_ of your business.” Honestly. Was Clarke’s mom always this nosey? Eliza would have to ask her.

“Alright, alright,” Abby lifts her hands in defeat. Eliza glances over and can’t help but smile as the older woman winks at her.

“Do you want to come over for dinner? And, really, you _can_ stay with us.”

“Dinner, yes. But I already have a hotel booked in town.”

“Fine,” Eliza rolls her eyes and then smiles as Abby pulls her into another hug. “I’m really glad you’re here, mom,” she whispers softly. Because she thinks it’s what Clarke would want her to say. Because it feels right. 

“Me too, sweetie.” Abby kisses her on the side of her head before pulling away. “Oh,” the older woman reaches forward. “You’ve got something stuck in your scarf. Here.”

Eliza’s throat thickens as Abby untangles the fabric. She’s not fully conscious of what Abby actually said or what the woman is trying to do because it simply feels so foreign to be fussed over. Completely new. Or very old.

“What’s this?” Abby’s voice draws her attention down. The little silver wishbone rests on the older woman’s index finger, finally free from where it must have snagged on Eliza’s thick scarf.

The blonde swallows, “Just a trinket.”

Abby frowns, eyes fixed on the silver necklace. “You got this here?”

Eliza can only nod, her words stolen by the emotion pulling at her gut. She blinks back the tears which threaten to fall and tries to smile fully. The woman before her only twists the necklace around before laying it gently back in place. She glances up at Eliza, then pulls the blonde into another hug.

“I missed you,” Abby murmurs against Clarke’s hair.

“You too, mom.”

And maybe it’s just Eliza’s imagination, but it feels like Abby’s grip tightens. Like the older woman holds Eliza even closer than before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave a comment! Your reactions and thoughts on the story give me life and help me write more <3
> 
> Also P.S. I don't hate Echo. She is just the easiest character to put in that role! Xx
> 
> Special thanks to Trintragula who wrote a deliciously long comment on the last chapter :) That was so fun to read!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello beautiful readers! This chapter is kind of a 'Part One' for a two-part installment. Basically, it's just an extra long chapter that I had to split in half. This part is a little more Clarke heavy and the next will be a little more Eliza heavy POV-wise, but both chapters are important for the plot :))

_**The Palace, Outside of Wembley, Polis - December 23rd 2018 - 10:00 CET** _

“And then you just add the flour slowly, bit by—” Clarke bites off the rest of her instructions as Lexa tilts the bowl and the entirety of the dry ingredients falls into the creamed butter. A large white cloud sprays back into the queen’s face and she coughs, stepping away from the long kitchen island. 

Clarke laughs and dusts the powder off of the queen’s nose with her index finger. Lexa holds her breath, visibly annoyed, but Clarke just shakes her head with a smile, “I did say _‘slowly.’_ ”

The queen glares at Clarke, but it only causes the blonde to smile harder. Clarke brushes off the last of the flour and then turns to the batter, holding her hands out in demonstration. “This is why we wear an apron. Or else all the flour would be on your Versace.” Clarke winks and then continues even as Lexa rolls her eyes, “Just stir the wet and dry ingredients together like so. There’s no real science to this part. And once the dough is homogeneous we’ll want to chill it for thirty minutes before we cut out the shapes.”

Lexa bats Clarke’s hand out of the way and takes over stirring. Her tone is only mildly frustrated when she reminds the blonde, “We do have a stand mixer you know.”

“But it’s fun to do it by hand! And it feels more rewarding…”

The queen arches her eyebrows at Clarke but continues to stir without further comment. When the dough looks like a golden ball, Clarke instructs Lexa to wrap it in cellophane and pop it in the fridge.

“Now what?” Lexa places her flour-covered hands on her hips, unaware that she’s leaving white handprints, and glances around the empty kitchen. Clarke smiles and pulls out a larger ball of cellophane-wrapped dough from one of the many refrigerators.

“I made this one earlier so we could just go ahead—”

Lexa’s mouth falls open, “You already made cookie dough?”

“Yes, I just—”

“Then why did we make more?”

“It’s fun!”

Lexa gives her deadpan expression, “So when I finish cutting this dough into shapes are you going to magically produce some already baked cookies?”

“No…” Clarke bites her lips, slowly shaking her head.

“Eliza,” Lexa says sternly.

“I— I just like to be prepared!”

“I can see that! Now, where are the cookies?”

Clarke slinks over to the cabinet and pulls out a large platter of perfectly frosted gingerbread men and women. She sets the plate in front of Lexa, wincing at the queen’s affronted expression.

“You didn’t really need my help at all!”

“No,” Clarke admits slowly, stepping closer to the monarch. “But I wanted it.”

“Not enough to wait for me,” Lexa crosses her arms.

“But now we get to eat them while we bake! Here, try one!”

Lexa opens her mouth, no doubt to argue further, but Clarke quickly stuffs a cookie in and waits nervously as the queen chews.

“Delicious,” Lexa whisper dangerously.

“You like them?” Clarke’s voice pitches higher as Lexa’s gaze narrows. “Here, have more. You just sit there and I’ll finish the next batch.”

“Oh no,” the queen’s voice is low and deadly. “You’re going to show me _exactly_ how to make these. Every step.”

“Really?” Clarke’s heart jumps. And a smile spreads across her face. “Okay, well we can start by rolling this dough out on a floured surface…”

She demonstrates what she means with a wooden dowel, pausing as Lexa steps closer. So close that Clarke can feel the heat of the queen against her back. Her cheeks flush slightly, but the blonde continues. “We want the dough to be about half a centimeter—”

“Like this?” Lexa’s arms bracket her own, hands gripping the rolling pin over Clarke’s and pushing the two of them closer to the workbench than is strictly necessary for rolling out the dough.

“Mmhmm,” Clarke nods, clearing her throat. She tries to focus on the task, but the dough ends up a little too thin in some places and too thick in others. Lexa continues to do her best to distract Clarke as they cut out the shapes; the queen invades the baker’s space and pretends to need Clarke’s help to press the cookie cutters into the dough. But the real challenge comes later when the baked cookies have cooled and Clarke attempts to frost the gingerbread in the same intricate way as before. Lexa leans over, asking questions in Clarke’s ear and causing the blonde’s hand to slip until she has created abominations rather than people out of royal icing. Finally, Clarke is so flustered that she spins around and orders Lexa to leave the kitchen.

“Look! Look at this horror show! Ugh! Go wrap the presents. Do something other than pester me!”

Lexa just chuckles and throws off her apron. She slides her hands into the pockets of her trousers before looking at Clarke innocently and asking, “Are you sure I can’t help—”

“Out!” Clarke huffs, pointing at the door. The queen smiles wryly before strolling from the kitchen, whistling faintly as she leaves.

Clarke curses heatedly and then turns back to the mess of cookies, uncomfortably aroused which was no doubt Lexa’s devious intent. The blonde breathes through her nose and pretends this is the competition. That there are stakes so her mind will focus on decorating instead of Lexa’s strong arms. It works. More or less.

An hour later, Clarke strides into the queen’s office with a fresh platter of cookies. She pauses in the doorway, head tilting to the side as she takes in the sight before her. The entire office is covered in presents, some wrapped, most not, and the desk is piled so high that only a small window in the gifts reveals the queen on the other side.

Lexa’s head is bent, lip pinched in concentration as she fiddles with the red wrapping paper around a plastic tiara. Clarke smiles and crosses the cluttered floor.

“Need some help?”

The queen’s green eyes dart up and narrow, “I’m perfectly fine.”

“Then have another cookie.”

Lexa quirks one brow up before reaching forward to snag a gingerbread from the tray. “I’m already stuffed, but I can’t seem to refuse. How did a duchess learn to bake so well?”

“My mother,” Clarke smiles, eyes bright.

“The Grand Duchess baked? Didn’t she die when you were quite young?”

Clarke nods, breath hitching. That’s the second time today she’s forgotten to play her part, to play Eliza. And even though it’s flowed naturally for the last day, Clarke has to focus on the Arkadian accent to force out the next words, “She did, but I remember her baking and it inspired me to learn.” It feels strange, unnatural to be lying to Lexa. It feels wrong. But Clarke doesn’t get much time to consider it because Lexa carries on, oblivious.

“You must miss her very much.”

“As you miss your parents, no doubt.”At least that’s not a lie.

“This time of year always reminds me of them,” Lexa leans back in her chair. “The odor of pine needles inside and the smell of turkey roasting. I used to associate it with the holidays, with my parents having time away from work and my cousins coming to play.” Lexa shakes her head and stands resolutely, “But _that_ was a long time ago.” Clarke frowns, watching as the queen straightens her jacket and steps around her desk to grab another naked toy — a wooden sword. The object reminds Clarke of the joyful expression it had inspired on the queen’s face the day before.

“You know,” Clarke steps forward to lean against Lexa’s desk as the brunette sits down again. “It’s still okay to play sometimes.” 

Lexa glances up at Clarke wistfully, “I’m not so sure.”

“Oh? What about earlier?”

The queen smirks, “If you thought that was for fun then you have another thing coming on our wedding night.”

Clarke chokes on air, face flushing brightly. _“Excuse me?”_

“I think you heard me, Eliza.”

Clarke swallows and looks down. She tells herself not to feel it — the nauseating emotion which has begun to erode her stomach like acid any time Lexa utters Eliza’s name. Acknowledging it is hopeless. Clarke knows that. Whatever feelings are there, whatever has grown between them isn’t real. How can it be? Lexa doesn’t know the truth. So it is all a lie. The warmth that Clarke feels when those green eyes stare at her. A lie. The fluttering in her stomach when Lexa smiles in that soft, genuine way which feels reserved only for Clarke. Another blatant lie. And all of these insidious, tender emotions will have to be crushed, squashed with a heavy fist. But… not today, Clarke comforts herself. Today she’ll let them exist, let them live in the light. Just for today. For the hours she has before midnight when Eliza and her will finally switch back.

So she looks up at Lexa and smiles, before saying daringly, “Challenge accepted.”

“I don’t think you know what you’re agreeing to.”

“And I think you are underestimating me. A dangerous habit of yours.”

“One you’ll have to rectify.”

“Oh, I intend to, _your majesty_.”

Lexa grins wickedly before turning back to the task in front of her. Clarke twists her head to watch the queen wrap the toy sword in gold paper and lets out an amused snort at the truly valiant, if not highly messy, effort.

Rolling her eyes, Clarke turns around, “You better let me help you with that.”

“Am I interrupting?”

Clarke looks up as Lexa's spine straightens and the queen’s smile dissolves into that regal mask. A man in his late fifties stands in the doorway, brown hair graying at his temples and an impeccable navy suit adorning his person. He looks rather severe, but his expression is one of amusement and the effect is completely unnerving.

“Your grace,” Lexa stands, inclining her head.

The man bows low, “Your majesty.” He straightens and his gaze comes to rest upon Clarke. When she makes no move or formal address, his eyebrows rise. “Is this how you greet your father? Polis seems to have roughened you around the edges, Eliza.”

Clarke’s eyes widen and she can feel her heartbeat expand into her throat. Father? Eliza’s father. The blonde coughs slightly and shifts around the desk. She halts before the man, unsure of what greeting would be appropriate. Finally, she rises awkwardly onto her toes and kisses him briefly on both cheeks before murmuring, _“Father.”_

He gives her a strange, perplexed look before his gaze turns to survey the queen’s office. “What is this? An explosion at a toy factory?”

Clarke blushes, “No… actually Lexa— I mean, her majesty and I are sponsoring a local charity and we thought it would be fun to… well, to wrap the presents ourselves! Get our hands dirty so to speak.”

“How very bourgeois of you, my dear.”

“Your daughter has been starting quite the revolution,” Lexa says cooly. Clarke twists around to glance at the queen, but the man’s rough laughter stops her.

“Not too much trouble I hope?” he asks amiably.

Clarke stiffens. Before Lexa can respond to his question, the blonde smiles, “Cookie?”

Again the Grand Duke looks both amused and curious as Clarke lifts the tray from the queen’s desk and presents him with an array of gingerbread men and women. He takes the closest and starts with its arms. His brows lift and then furrow as he chews. Some emotion sweeps over his face, but it passes too quickly for Clarke to read.

“Do you like them?”

His voice is lower, more serious when he says, “They remind me of your mother.” 

Surprise bubbles up within Clarke. Eliza hadn’t ever mentioned her mother baking. But before Clarke can think too much on the coincidence, the Grand Duke claps his hands together.

“Well, I had better leave you two to your wrapping.”

“Do you…” Clarke pauses, unsure if she should finish the question. But there is little point stopping now. “Would you like to join us, father? We could use the help.”

The man gives her another strange look.

“What?”

He shakes his head. “It’s just… you haven’t called me ‘father’ since you were in high school.”

“You _are_ my father,” Clarke says uncomfortably, laughing slightly. “What else would I call you?”

“Marcus,” he states, then raises his hands. “But no matter. I find I much prefer when you call me father. In fact, I would not be opposed if you wished to call me ‘dad’ again.”

“Alright, dad… Would you like to join us?”

He glances between Clarke and the queen. “No, I think I better not. Jetlag and all that, you know?” He explains before giving another bow and breezing out of the room. Clarke stares after him, feeling a bit jet-lagged herself.

**_The Palace, Outside of Wembley, Polis - December 23rd 2018 - 17:30 CET  
_ **

“One more!” Clarke calls as she and Lexa exit the castle followed closely by a brigade of staff carrying presents and cookies to the limo.

Murphy raises his brows as the last of the load is placed in the trunk. “I think you’ve bought the children presents for _two_ Christmases.”

Lexa points at a lumpy present and says proudly as if comparing size, “I wrapped that one.”

“Really?” Murphy’s eyebrows disappear into his hairline. “Extraordinary, your majesty.”

“Part of giving a gift is wrapping it, Murphy,” Clarke remarks dryly, coming to stand beside Lexa.

The man nods, “Yes, I can tell you wrapped a fair few of these.”

Raven glowers at him from the other side of the car, “Where is your holiday spirit, huh?”

“It died after the third time I was forced to listen to _‘Santa Baby’_ in the grocery store.”

“Grinch.”

“Does that make you Max?”

Raven snorts, “I think we both know who is Max in our… association.”

Clarke bites back a smile and Lexa clears her throat. 

“After you, your majesty,” Murphy bows with a flourish.

The car ride to the shelter is quiet and Clarke enjoys the simple pleasure of just _being_ in Lexa’s company. They don’t have to say any words. Clarke rests her head against Lexa’s shoulder and when her mind tries to bring up the deadline, the finite quality of their time together, she closes her eyes and listens to the sound of the queen’s steady heart.

But even though the space between those beats slows the longer Clarke concentrates on the sound, she cannot seem to make Time function similarly. It slips between her fingers like fine grains of sand until they are at the shelter and surrounded by the children.

St. Andrews appears far cheerier than it did the day before. A large, very real Christmas tree stands in the corner of the main hall with red and gold ornaments decorating its surface. Countless strands of popcorn and cranberries wrap around the tree, no doubt made by the children this morning. Presents overflow from the base of the pine and it’s a communal effort to keep the kids from opening them until the adults have properly imbibed plenty of brandy and eggnog.

Clarke’s head buzzes pleasantly and a smile is plastered to her face as the children rip open what took hours to wrap. Squeals and giggles of delight follow each torn wrapping until the floor is strewn in pieces of decorative paper. She watches as Lexa pulls aside the little boy named Aden and presents him with a special gift wrapped in gold paper. His smile spreads from ear to ear as he unwraps the wooden sword from the toy shop.

“Use it well,” Lexa winks at the kid and ruffles his hair before coming back to stand next to Clarke.

“Favoritism? Really?”

Lexa laces her fingers through Clarke’s left hand, before whispering, “Do you really want me to stop?”

“No.”

The queen chuckles and pulls Clarke across the room and down onto the piano stool with her.

“What are you doing?” The pleasant buzz around Clarke’s mind shatters.

“Relax,” Lexa ties her hair back. “All you have to do is turn the pages for me.”

“Oh,” Clarke exhales a short laugh. “I can do that.”

The matron, children, and staff gather around the instrument as Lexa stretches her fingers along the keys, hitting an opening chord. Then, as easy as breathing, the queen begins to play _‘Silver Bells.’_ Clarke’s mouth drops open as Lexa starts to sing and a raspy, alto melody pours out of her. The rest of the crowd joins, but Clarke only has eyes for the queen. Her focus remains on Lexa, on the lightness which sweeps over her stoic person. It paints such a different picture to the woman who Clarke met the first night that the blonde’s eyes start to well. She blinks away the moisture and twists, focusing on turning the page and singing along with everyone as they move from carol to carol.

When they’ve exhausted the well-known songs and perspiration dots Lexa’s brow, the singing comes to a close. Lexa stands, straightening her emerald velvet jumpsuit, and then turns to give Clarke a hand.

The matron circles closer to the couple and murmurs quietly, “I don’t know how to thank you enough. The children are ecstatic and the changes you’ve made to the budgeting are going to help so much.”

Clarke twists to look at Lexa, eyes wide. “Did you—”

“Yes,” the queen smiles softly before addressing the matron. “We are happy to give you more autonomy over the money. It is a donation after all. And who knows the needs of this organization better than you? Truly, we are excited to help.”

“It’s an extremely generous gesture, your majesty.”

Lexa’s brows furrow. “I’d like to do better than a gesture. In fact,” she continues, her voice rising to gain control of the room. “The duchess and I are moved by the wonderful work you do here. And we don’t want to simply sit on the sidelines. We want to participate. Be of service. So I’d like to make this a tradition. I’d like to have monthly visits so we can get to know you all and learn how best to help.”

Clarke’s breath catches in her throat as she watches Lexa command the room, as the queen’s voice rings out and her words find a home in Clarke’s heart. And when Lexa glances back at the blonde, the monarch finds tears in her blue eyes. But it’s a sweet sadness. Because it’s everything Clarke wants for the children, for Lexa, for this place…. even if Clarke won’t be a part of it herself. Even then, she tries to remind herself as Lexa pulls her closer, even then it will have been worth it.

A familiar tinkling sound fills the air as the crowd taps their glasses. High overhead a little branch of mistletoe hangs and Clarke cannot stop the hiccuping laugh which escapes her throat at the irony.

“Again?” Raven sighs to her right, but the brunette smiles kindly.

Clarke’s eyes travel back to Lexa, to the incredible, strong, beautiful woman before her. The woman she has fallen for without ever meaning to. While she thought her heart still ached for someone else. How funny to realize that heart was in her chest all along at the precise moment she accepts that it no longer belongs to her.

 _“I love you,”_ Clarke whispers, only loud enough for Lexa to hear. She holds that brilliant brilliant gaze with her own and slides her hands behind the queen’s neck, pulling Lexa down to her. And Clarke smiles against Lexa’s mouth, smiles as the queen’s hands wrap around her waist, dragging Clarke against her. And even though they are surrounded by fifty people, Clarke doesn’t blush. Because there is no embarrassment or fear or hesitancy in her mind. Not while she is in Lexa’s arms. Not while they are together. Clarke’s heart beats steadily when they pull apart and the cheer of the crowd rises up to meet them. Lexa grins and Clarke smiles back softly, letting her hands slide into the queen’s.

A muttered oath draws the focus of the room. The crowd looks towards the far wall where a brooding Murphy stands, face tense and annoyed. Aden cries _‘en garde’_ pointing his wooden sword at the cornered man. The young boy lightly wacks Murphy on one thigh and then the other, causing the man’s face to grow even more pinched.

“Oh, dear! I’d better stop that,” the matron shakes her head, making for the pair.

“It’s fine,” Lexa chuckles. “He’s only dreaming of defending his country.”

“I—” the matron stops, scandalized.

“Best to use diplomacy on this one,” Clarke appeases the woman, winking at Lexa who merely shrugs. But intervention proves unnecessary as Aden and a very unamused Murphy appear moments later, the latter directing the former firmly by the shoulders.

“Young sir requests to play Twister,” Murphy drawls out. “And I said that your majesty and your grace were well acquainted with the game.” 

Lexa raises her eyebrows, “Did you?” She turns to Aden, clapping her hands together. “Twister is one of my favorite games.”

“Mine too!”

“Wonderful. Lead the way,” Lexa gestures forward and begins to walk after the kid, adding over her shoulder. “C’mon, Murphy.”

“What? But, your majesty, _Twister_ ,” he sneers the word, “is not in my job description.”

Raven snorts, “It is now.”

Clarke smiles, her heart full as she watches Murphy and Raven trail after the queen. She follows them shortly. Just after she’s had a moment to breathe. After she decides to put aside the sadness and simply enjoy _now._

**_Rental House, Wembley, Polis - December_ _23rd_ _2018 - 20:30 CET  
_ **

“Bye, Mom!” Eliza waves from the porch, watching as Abby slides into the cab bound for her hotel. The woman turns right before shutting the door and smiles. But there is something different about that smile and there has been all day. The expression doesn’t quite reach the older woman’s eyes which remain keen and sharp as if she is watching Eliza. Still, Abby has not said anything. She has laughed at Bellamy’s jokes and teased ‘Clarke’ about the two of them and spoiled Madi since ten o’clock this morning. Maybe Eliza is reading too much into it. Maybe she is projecting her own strange fascination with Abby onto the older woman.

Eliza presses the door shut gently and then stretches her hands overhead, sighing. She strides over to the kitchen and joins Bellamy at the sink to wash up from dinner. Her shoulder brushes up against his as she rinses everything he has already scrubbed down.

“That was the _best_ Sinigang I’ve ever eaten,” Eliza states confidently. Bellamy rolls his eyes, but his cheeks flush slightly from the compliment and Eliza finds the contradiction completely endearing.

“I make it for you every year, Clarke.”

Eliza shrugs, “It’s still amazing. How did you learn to cook like that?”

“My dad, actually,” Bellamy admits, the words feeling weighted. Clarke had mentioned this. How Bellamy’s parents had died when he was in high school. After a tumultuous separation that left both barely fit to care for their children. Eliza swallows as Bellamy continues, “Any time Octavia and I were allowed to visit him, we spent the whole weekend cooking Filipino food. It was actually a lot of fun. ” He frowns and shakes his head with a frustrated sigh, “I still miss him. God, I hate that! It feels like I’m betraying my mom even thinking it.”

“He was still your father,” Eliza looks over at him, pressing her shoulder more fully against his. “It’s okay to miss him.”

Bellamy nods, jaw tight. He scrubs a few more plates before he says in a rough voice. “He’s still alive, you know… I—I haven’t told anyone that.”

“What?” Eliza breathes in, stomach clenching.

“Yeah, I saw him. Two years ago. On a bus. I was standing on the street corner and he was looking out of the window. We made eye contact, but I… I don’t even think he recognized me.”

“Bellamy—”

“It’s fine,” he says gruffly, blinking, “I don’t even know why I’m telling you this.”

Eliza reaches her hand over into the other side of the sink to grab his soapy one. “You don’t have to cook this if makes you unhappy. Not for me. Not for anyone.”

“I like how happy it makes you,” he smiles down at their hands, his large fingers sliding through hers.

She swallows and admits quietly, “Seeing you happy makes me happy.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, crazy how that works right?”

Bellamy laughs, the tension easing from his chest. “It actually feels _really_ good to cook this food. Like I’m rewriting history or something.”

“Have you ever thought about opening your own restaurant in Chicago?”

He looks taken aback. “Would you be okay with that?”

“It’s _your_ life, Bellamy.”

“But what about The Dropship?”

“I think the world will be just fine if you don’t put all of it on your shoulders,” Eliza murmurs, squeezing his fingers, “and I think you might be a bit happier.”

Bellamy turns his body to face her and his expression is excruciatingly indefinable as he holds her gaze.

“What?”

He frowns, “I just… You’re so—”

“Heyo!” Madi shouts, sliding into the kitchen on her reindeer socks. “Are we going out tonight? We could get hot chocolate and see the Christmas tree all lit up in the square again and—”

“Wow, wow, slow down squirt. You’ve already had _way_ too much hot cocoa today and it’s past your bedtime.” Bellamy looks pointedly at his daughter, “The only place you’re going is up to the bathroom to brush your teeth.”

Madi puts her hands on her hips, glaring up at her father. “The only place? Does that mean I’m sleeping in the bathtub?”

“Obviously I meant—”

“Ha! You lose, I win. Let’s go into town!”

“Madigan Aurora Blake. Bed. Now.”

Madi sticks out her tongue, but when Bellamy doesn’t budge she sighs heavily, “Fine, but I want Clarke to tuck me in.”

Eliza smiles, drying off her hands before glancing at Bellamy. “Our liege has commanded and I must obey. I’ll be right back.”

“Hey!” Bellamy protests as the two girls head upstairs. “I cooked. You’re supposed to clean!”

“I’ll think of some way to repay you,” Eliza says without thinking and then twists, letting out a laugh at his shocked expression. “You know what I mean.”

“Do I?”

“I guess we’ll see.”

Madi makes a gagging sound and pulls on Eliza’s hand until they’re safely locked within the little girl’s bedroom. The child raises an imperious set of eyebrows at the duchess and then points to her dresser, “The royal pajamas, please.”

“Yes, your majesty,” Eliza curtsies.

The blonde helps Madi wiggle into her onesie and then brushes her own teeth alongside the kid so that Madi doesn’t have an excuse to skip the pre-bed routine. Eliza takes a running start from the bathroom, leaping across the hall to flop down onto the kid’s bed with Madi giggling just behind her. It’s only when the child is finally tucked beneath the comforter and Eliza has finished reading a chapter out of Percy Jackson that Madi’s expression turns serious. She grabs Eliza’s hand as the blonde rises to leave.

“Wait!”

Eliza sits down once more. “What is it?”

“You’re leaving tonight, aren’t you?”

The duchess nods and her heart sinks as she takes in the child’s wounded expression.

“Were you even going to say goodbye?”

“I’m not very good with those sorts of things.”

Madi scowls then replies smartly, “I thought you said we should always try new things.”

“Ahh, so I did,” Eliza concedes. She pauses, trying to find the right words, but it only becomes harder with every passing second. “I… I don’t even know how to begin.”

“Then don’t leave.”

Warm affection seeps into Eliza at the determination on the young girl’s face. But the feeling is quickly tinged by the knowledge of what she must do. Eliza exhales, admitting, “I don’t have a choice, Madi.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s my duty.”

“Which means you have to do things… even if you don’t like them?” Madi asks, frowning.

“Something like that.”

“But that’s not fair!” the child pouts.

“No,” the duchess smiles wanly. “I suppose it’s not.”

“I want you to stay. You have to stay.”

Eliza's throat begins to burn, tightening like Madi’s grip on her hand. “You’ll be fine. You’ll have Clarke and you know how much she loves you—”

“But I want _you_ to stay.”

Eliza inhales sharply. _I want you to stay._ No one has ever said that to her before. And she flounders with an inadequate response. “I know, kiddo. I’m sorry, but… you’ll be okay, I promise.”

“Will you? Will my dad?”

“What do you mean?”

“He and Clarke are friends, but you make him happy. He smiles more when you’re around. He laughs more. He’s happier, Eliza. Please don’t leave.” Madi’s eyes are dark round spheres, wide and worried in her small face.

A sharp, searing heat slices through Eliza's chest. She looks up at the ceiling, trying desperately to keep her swiftly forming tears from falling. Because that is the last thing Madi needs to see right now. Finally, Eliza glances back down and says quietly, truthfully, “I wish I could stay, please believe me. But no matter where I am or where you are, I will always care about you, Madi. And your father. You both will always have a special place in my heart. _Always_.”

Madi only jerks her head once before turning over, face buried into her stuffed teddy. The girl’s shoulders are rigid and it breaks Eliza to know that she is causing this pain. She places her hand on the child’s back, but Madi only stiffens and clutches her bear tighter. Eliza leans over, pressing a kiss to those dark curls. Stubborn tears begin to fall in earnest and she makes a swift retreat from Madi’s room before the child can hear or see the evidence.

She breathes in and out several times in a pitiful attempt to assuage the burning sensation in her chest. But it won’t dissipate. It won’t lighten. Because it’s her own fault. She put it there. And as Eliza leans against the wall of the dark hallway, one thing becomes abundantly clear to her — she never should have done this. Come here. _Switched places._ It was selfish. So incredibly selfish.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always your comments and reactions give me life and make me smile! New chapters will be up every other day until the story is finished <3 
> 
> Also, I always forget to add this, but I announce chapter updates on Tumblr. I post mostly about my WIPs, The 100, and Harry Potter. If you want to follow me, you can [here](https://thefutureunseen.tumblr.com/). My ask box is always open if you have questions or prompts <3 
> 
> Xx


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'Part Two' of that extra long chapter :) Enjoy!

**_Rental House, Wembley, Polis - December 23rd 2018 - 21:10 CET_ **

Bellamy spins around as Eliza walks down the stairs, a large grin spread across his tan face. A wooden tray sits beside the overstuffed couch with two giant mugs resting on its surface. Steam rises from the hot liquid within and the rich smell of spiced cider laces the air. Eliza tries to smile, but it’s weak, barely visible. And his face falls.

“Are you okay?”

She nods, pausing on the last step, “Just tired.”

“If you want to go to bed…”

“No,” she says quickly. That’s the last thing she wants right now. They don’t have much time left.

“What do you need?”

Words stick in Eliza’s throat at the simple sincerity of his question. Like she could ask for anything and he would endeavor to give it to her. That thought alone brings the tears back to her eyes — the ones she’s been fighting off since leaving Madi’s room.

“Clarke, what do you need?” He asks again.

She opens her mouth then closes it, head shaking. Finally, she just whispers, “A hug, I think.”

Bellamy crosses the room in four lengths of his long stride. His arms wrap around her and he lifts Eliza off the last step to bring her fully against him. Eliza digs her fingers into the back of his flannel shirt, clutching at the fabric as she buries her face in his chest. A muffled sob escapes her throat, burning its way out, breaking between them. His hands stroke with gentle pressure down her back as she crushes herself into him, clinging to his frame as if she might memorize what it feels like to be held. Because Eliza can’t remember the last time and she has no idea when the next will be and if she is honest with herself, it’s more than that. It’s a need to remember every aspect of this man which consumes her, which tightens her arms around his middle until neither one of them can breathe. And it’s the certainty that she will forget, that time and duty and obligation will eventually erase every part of him, which steals the tears from her eyes.

“Clarke,” he whispers into her hair, pulling back to look at her. But she won’t let him, won’t let go. “Clarke,” he urges her again. And Eliza wishes, not for the first time, that _that_ was her name, that this was her life, that she didn’t have to leave.

His hands cup her puffy face, tilting her head back to look at him. His features are blurry, obscured by the water in her eyes. Still, she manages to croak, “I’m _fine_.”

He laughs, the deep rumble reverberating between them, “No, you’re not. But nice try.”

“I…” she starts, but no words come out. Nothing follows.

“You don’t have to talk about it if you’re not ready.”

Eliza nods, heart squeezing from the sweetness in his voice. 

“How about a movie?”

Bellamy leads her over to the couch with his arm still around her shoulders and sets her down before turning to the television. She watches him as he bites his lip in concentration, flipping through the list of movies, watches his brows furrow and then lift as he reads the titles, watches the smile spread across his face when he glances over at her.

“What about this one?”

Eliza forces her eyes to the TV screen, before nodding. “Sure.”

He hits play and leans back, his arms stretching along the back of the couch. And before she can second guess herself, Eliza shifts into him. She lays her head against his shoulder and pretends to watch the screen as the movie starts. Instead, she listens to his breathing. She tucks her hands around his waist and smiles when his arms fold over her. At some point, she closes her eyes and maybe it’s from the tears, or the stress, or simply because nothing has ever felt this much like home, but Eliza falls asleep, drifts off listening to deep breathing and a flickering pulse.

**_The Palace, Outside of Wembley, Polis - December 23rd 2018 - 22:30 CET_ **

The sconces along the hall were dimmed hours ago and their soft light sends shadows dancing across Clarke and the queen as they walk side by side. The night has been magical, ethereal almost, but with each step that brings them closer to Eliza’s chambers, Clarke begins to feel that strange sensation of waking. Like coming to consciousness slowly until the sharp disappointment of reality sets in. She’s somewhere in between, not quite asleep, but desperately holding on to the last vestiges of a perfect dream.

Her footsteps slow and the queen unconsciously matches her pace. Clarke’s wants to reach out, to eliminate the space growing between them… but she doesn’t know how to start despite all that has happened. Despite the laughter and the clarity which suddenly feel shrouded in a heavy fog. They reach the double-doored entrance to the duchess’ chambers and Clarke bites her lip, trying to keep the wavering breath inside her chest.

“I had a lovely evening,” Clarke finally manages to say, her voice clear in spite of her rapid heartbeat.

Lexa turns, “Me too. I’ve… I’ve learned a lot from you.”

“You mean like how to bake gingerbread cookies and shop for toys?”

The queen smiles wryly before her expression softens into something more sincere, “I mean, how to connect with people, how to reach out in a meaningful way. Rather than with some formula I’ve been taught.”

“You’re too hard on yourself, Lexa,” Clarke insists, stepping closer to the queen. She looks up into those green eyes and says softly, “You have a good heart. Don’t give me all the credit just because I saw that.”

“But you _did_ see that,” Lexa counters. “Most people don’t and I… I don’t let them.”

“I think it helps you to believe that you are tougher than you actually are, but… vulnerability is not a weakness.”

Lexa’s cheeks hollow out as she swallows visibly, then nods, “You’ve shown me that.”

“I was happy to.”

“I hope I live up to your praise.”

Clarke shakes her head, smiling, “You’re doing just fine.”

“With you and your fiery spirit by my side, how could I possibly go wrong?”

Clarke’s heart twists in her chest as she observes the open earnestness in the queen’s face. She presses her hands together, trying to keep her breathing even. Clarke guesses that _this_ is as much of a goodbye as she can hope for. “I think I should turn in for the evening. Thank you again… for everything, Lexa.”

“Wait,” the queen’s hand stops Clarke, bracing against her elbow. Then it falls away once more. “I wanted to give you something. A wedding present or early Christmas gift, whichever you prefer.” Lexa reaches into the pocket of her black coat and pulls out a flat red-velvet jewelry box. “I didn’t have time to wrap it, but… maybe that’s for the best,” she adds wryly as she places the box into Clarke’s palm.

The blonde’s brows furrow as she looks down at the red thing. Her eyes dart up to Lexa, finding the queen waiting expectantly with an almost giddy smile on her face, before they rest once more on the box. She slides the lid open.

“ _Ridiyo, Koma, Hodnes,”_ Clarke reads aloud as she stares down at the beautiful golden crest which nestles in between velvet folds.

“Truth, Honor, and Love,” Lexa repeats the words in English.

Clarke breathes in sharply as tears sting her eyes. “Your grandmother’s pendant.”

“It seemed only right for you to have it.”

“Thank you,” she chokes out, one hand coming to her throat. “It’s beautiful.”

“I…” Lexa steps closer, the movement bringing Clarke’s gaze up. The queen stares down at the blonde with such a tender expression that it softens the sharp planes of her face. And when Lexa speaks, she utters the words softly. “I have to admit that I was worried about us. About not knowing you. About whether _this_ would work… but the past few days have been amazing. And… I’m not worried anymore.” Clarke blinks back the moisture in her eyes, hands beginning to shake as the queen continues, “I feel like I can talk to you about anything. You’re honest to a fault. And… I think… I _know_ that I am in love with you. And it terrifies me. You terrify me. And exhilarate me and I love you. _I love you, Eliza_.”

The name hits Clarke squarely in the chest and like a bullet it rips her open. Breath rushes into her lungs on a shaky inhale and her eyes squeeze shut for a moment, trying to stem the coming tide. She reminds herself that this is not her life. It’s not her life. It doesn’t belong to her. This woman doesn’t belong to her. _Not her life._ Those three words keep repeating in Clarke’s head as she opens her eyes and leans forward. As she presses her lips just once, just briefly, against the queen’s mouth, tasting Lexa one last time.

“Goodnight,” she presses her cheek against the queen’s before pulling away and heading towards her door.

Lexa frowns, following her, “Did I do something wrong? Should I not have said anything?”

“No,” Clarke shakes her head, twisting the door handle. “You did everything right. Everything you said… _everything_.”

“I’ll see you in the morning, then.”

Clarke’s breath hitches, “You will see your duchess in the morning.”

Those are the last words she says to Lexa, at least not a lie, before Clarke forces herself to walk through and slide the door shut. When it clicks, a short exhale leaves her. Clarke braces herself against the wall, one hand coming to press against the hole opening in her chest. She tries to inhale but the air catches in her throat and then breaks her open. The dam shatters and Clarke covers her mouth against the force of its destruction, holding back her ragged voice as she begins to cry.

_**Rental House, Wembley, Polis - December 23rd 2018 - 23:00 CET** _

_“Hey, sleepy head. Wake up.”_

Eliza blinks slowly, confusion sweeping through her. Where is she? A hand rakes slowly through her hair and the comforting touch sends her eyes fluttering closed once more. She feels the hand brush a few locks out of her face.

_“Wake up, Clarke.”_

Eliza starts, eyes opening once more — clearer and more lucid this time. The living room is much darker than before, only a small light in the kitchen and the glowing Christmas tree illuminate the space. Eliza becomes aware that the couch beneath her is not very soft or squishy. Then the couch shifts.

She pushes herself up and Bellamy lets out a rough exhale as her hands dig into his diaphragm. She must have dozed off at some point during the movie. He had stretched out along the couch and her body instinctively followed his. She swallows, putting space between them.

“Sorry.”

“For falling asleep?” Bellamy chuckles, raking his own hair out of his face. “It doesn’t offend me. But I thought that movie was your favorite?”

Eliza shrugs, stretching. “I guess I was more tired than I thought.”

“You should probably just go to bed. We have some prep to do for the competition tomorrow anyways.”

Her heart stalls, “What time is it?”

“Around ten thirty, I think.”

Eliza breathes out, “Not too late then.”

She will have to leave soon though. Why had she let herself fall asleep? Eliza wishes that she could rewind the last hour and a half and experience it again. She wonders what dry commentary he might have made or if he would have laughed at the sappy bits, or maybe… maybe he would have cried at the sweet ending.

“Could you—” she starts, glancing over at him. “Could you do something for me?”

“Anything,” he grins and then adds quickly, “Within reason, Clarke.”

And she feels her lips tug up in response. She’s going to miss his teasing. “Could you open the present I got for you?”

“Now?”

“Yeah,” she nods, moving to the tree and withdrawing a silver package from beneath the pine boughs. “I want to see you open it.”

Bellamy laughs, “You’ll see me open it on Christmas, Clarke.”

“Right… I just— I guess I want to see you open it now,” she finishes lamely. He holds her gaze for a moment before nodding with a shrug of his broad shoulders. His fingers tear at the paper and Eliza adds quickly, her heart racing. “It’s nothing fancy. Definitely not as big as your gift, but… I thought you might like it.”

The paper falls away to reveal a small, wooden picture frame. The photograph inside is of the three of them on Main Street. Bellamy and Madi have their faces pinched in laughter, but Eliza is not even looking into the camera. Instead, the photographer has captured her staring up at the father-daughter duo with a look of tender adoration on her face.

Bellamy stares at it silently, brows furrowed. And as the quiet stretches out Eliza begins to ramble to fill the dead space. “I know it’s not exciting or anything, but I reached out to the reporter and it’s a nice photo. I just wanted you to have something to remember me by.”

His eyes drag up to hers, “Clarke, I have tons of photos of us.”

“Of course,” Eliza laughs sharply, heart falling out of her chest. “Of course, you do. I should have thought of something better—”

“No, _I love it_ ,” Bellamy stands, immediately in her space. “But I don’t need a picture to remember you.”

“You never know,” Eliza whispers, arms hugging herself like she might keep all of the sticky emotions from pouring out.

His voice is adamant, firm, “I do. I know that.”

“Okay.”

Bellamy frowns at her, “You’re acting strange again.”

“I know,” she breathes in shakily.

“Look,” he starts, stepping even closer. So close that every inhale threatens to bring Eliza’s chest against his. “I know we’ve said a million times before that we’re just friends. That we’re better that way, and _every_ time I’ve agreed with you. Completely. But for some reason, the past few days have been different… and maybe it’s just me,” he laughs roughly, running a hand through his hair again. “Maybe I’m crazy and reading into it… but I feel like there is something here between us. And, I think you feel it too.”

Air flutters desperately, trapped in Eliza’s lungs as she stares back at him with wide eyes. He feels it too. This crazy, insane feeling, this electricity between them. He feels all of it. Relief courses through her like a rod of lightning and before she can think better of it, her hands fly up, fingers sifting through his hair and dragging him down, down, down until she can surge up and press her lips against his.

Bellamy inhales sharply against her mouth, stealing the breath from her lungs. His body stiffens for a moment before the shock drains from his system and his arms wrap around her, hoisting her up. Eliza gasps as her stomach drops from the swift movement. Her legs cross instinctively behind his back as she tilts her head to the side, kissing him hard, pulling him harder against her body.

She moans against Bellamy’s mouth when his hands rake down her spine to cup her bum. Eliza arches against him, mouth tearing away from his to fall open, as he pulls her down against him. And she can feel everything, every ridge and sinew, every curve and plane of his body against her own. It’s too much. And still, it’s not enough.

Her back hits a hard surface and she registers that he’s pressed her up against the mantle. One hand lifts to brace herself along the shelf and the other pulls his head towards her again. He groans, a ragged pant into her collarbone as she grinds down on him. Then she drags his head up, capturing his lips once more, savoring every second. And he tastes like sunshine, like warmth, and cinnamon, and butterscotch. Like freedom. Her eyes fall shut as he trails kisses down her throat.

_“Clarke.”_

His voice is a ragged, husky whisper against her skin as he murmurs _that_ name. And it’s like a cold shower, like jumping in the arctic sea, like a thousand thin needs all shoved into the same hole in her chest, the one where her heart should be. Eliza reels, crashing back into reality so fast that she cannot breathe.

Air finally breaks into her lungs as she pushes him away, as far away as possible. And she cannot look at him, cannot face the guilt searing in her chest along with a million other emotions. Because who is she? She is engaged. She has a _fiance_. She has a duty. And she has already stuck a burning iron through Clarke and Bellamy and _Madi’s_ life as it is. How could she do this? Bile rises steadily in her throat and her eyes fall on the clock in the kitchen. 23:30. Bellamy must have got the time wrong. A fool’s hope. She has to go now. Clarke will be waiting, expecting her life back, expecting Eliza to not have fucking ruined her friendship.

“I’m so sorry,” she breathes out, tears starting to fall from her eyes despite her best efforts.

Bellamy moves towards her slowly, hands raised, “Clarke, it’s okay—”

Eliza sobs harder, hugging herself. This was such a mistake. How did she think one taste of freedom would ever be enough? How did she imagine she would go back to being caged after _this._ But she has to. Her fiance is waiting. Clarke is waiting. Her father is waiting. Her country. This country. Her duty. The thing she was raised for. So she draws on every lesson, every year that she was taught to hide, to become everything _but_ herself. Eliza focuses on breathing deeply until her lungs are calm, until her face is blank and the emptiness is only visible inside. She blinks and looks at Bellamy forcing herself to say even as her heart breaks to pieces just a little more, “We shouldn’t have done that. _I_ shouldn’t have done that. I… I think it would be best if we pretend this never happened.” 

“Clarke, I don’t understand,” Bellamy steps forward, his voice becoming tighter. “Why are you saying this?”

“I… I need you to not ask me that.”

Bellamy’s face falls, his expression twisting into a confused sort of desperation. “Clarke, please, let’s just talk about this.”

Eliza breathes in, meeting his gaze without wavering.“I can’t.”

“Yes, we can. It’s us. We can talk about anything. This doesn’t change that.” He takes a cautious step towards Eliza, but she backs away, her false calm beginning to crumble.

“I need some air,” she whispers and turns towards the door. He stands frozen as she walks by him, confusion plainly painted across his features. Eliza counts the steps to the exit, hoping he won’t stop her and wishing that he would. His voice breaks through the still air only once, only when she opens the door.

“Please don’t leave.”

Eliza closes her eyes, resting her head against the wood. Her heart beats a dull, ragged rhythm in her chest, one of resignation. She shakes her head against the door and says without turning, “I’m so sorry. _I have to_.”

Then the duchess steps out into the cold, windless night and walks down the snowy steps, heading back to a life that never really felt like hers. And even though her heart begs for one more glance, she doesn’t allow herself. Because if she looks back, Eliza knows that she will never find the strength to leave.

**_The Palace, Outside of Wembley, Polis - December 23rd 2018 - 00:00 CET_ **

The cab drops Eliza off at the palace gates. The duchess walks with her arms wrapped tightly around her waist and even though it’s a clear night, the air is frigid and bites against Eliza’s skin. She left so quickly that she forgot her coat— forgot _Clarke’s_ coat and now she suffers the consequences. Her teeth begin to chatter as she waits by the wrought iron door. She tries to ignore the stinging in her eyes and the dried tears on her cheeks. But the colder her body becomes the less resolve she has.

A small light bobs in the distance, growing brighter. And just when Eliza thinks her teeth will start to fall out from the clacking, Raven steps into the shallow circle of the lamp-post, a torch in her right hand. Eliza whimpers slightly at the sight of her best friend and when the brunette opens the small door in the gate, she all but throws herself at the woman.

“Hey, _hey_ ,” Raven’s voice is soothing, her arms wrapping firmly around Eliza. “Wait, why aren’t you wearing a coat?”

“Forgot it.”

“Of course, you did,” Raven sighs, but there’s only warm exasperation in her voice. Eliza missed that. “Come on.”

The brunette keeps one arm wrapped around Eliza’s shoulders as they head back towards the castle. The snow seeps into the blonde’s white Converse and her feet feel stiff by the time they reach the back entrance. When they step inside, Raven freezes, eyes narrowing on the duchess’ face. The brighter interior illuminates the red splotches under Eliza’s eyes and Raven asks sternly, “What happened?”

“I don’t know,” she whispers, turning down the empty corridor.

“Hey, don’t walk away.”

Eliza twists around to face her best friend, “I made a mistake, okay? This was a mistake.”

Raven frowns, “Are you hurt? Did someone hurt you? Because I will maim—”

“No, Raven. _I_ hurt everyone. Me. I did this.”

“You are not responsible for everyone else, Liza,” the brunette states firmly. “Clarke made her choice as much as you made yours.”

“And Lexa? Bellamy? We didn’t give them a choice.” Eliza simply shakes her head and makes her stiff feet carry her towards her bedroom. Had it really only been four days? It felt like five years had passed. Or only a few hours. Time was odd like that. She wipes a damp arm across her face, using her t-shirt to dry her eyes before glancing at Raven.

“Do I look like I’ve been crying?”

Raven arches her eyebrows, “Do you want me to lie to you?”

Eliza snorts and raises a hand to knock on the door, breathing deeply. The sound of footsteps echoes behind the wooden barrier and then the latch whines as the door opens. Clarke stands directly opposite Eliza, her face strangely unreadable as she appraises the duchess. The baker looks infinitely more comfortable in the dusky pink robe since the last time Eliza saw her.

The duchess smiles weakly, “I’m back.”

Clarke only frowns and then steps aside. The two women enter and Eliza glances around the ornate bedchamber, her home for the past three months. And as she stares at the brocaded carpet and silk divan, Eliza realizes that she did not miss it, not even once while she was gone. All of the furniture had been there long before she arrived and would be there long after she moved in with Lexa. The thought sends something painful through her stomach and she tries not to think about the pair of soft, brown eyes which flash into her mind.

Eliza swallows, “Did everything go okay after the ball?”

“Yeah,” Clarke nods. “More than okay… how about you? Did you get to do everything you wanted?”

“Almost.”

Silence stretches between them and it feels taut and uncomfortable. Clarke stares at Eliza, brows furrowed, and Eliza cannot help but feel her guilt rise like some specter between them. No matter what Raven says.

“Thank you… for helping me.”

Clarke shrugs, “You’re going to help Madi so in a way you are helping me and… and it’s been… really wonderful to be here. You’re very lucky, Eliza. I hope you know that. Lexa—” Clarke inhales as name leaves her lips. “Lexa is so special.”

Eliza closes her eyes, hands clenching and unclenching as she tries to keep those traitorous emotions from ripping out of her. She breathes in and then out, saying smoothly. “You are the lucky one, Clarke. Bellamy and Madi are so caring. They love you _so_ much.”

“I know,” Clarke replies quietly, then steps forward. “Take care of Lexa, please. She’s so much softer than she lets people believe. Don’t let her forget that. She needs to be reminded. And—”

“I’ll try,” Eliza says quickly, moving closer as well. Her eyes fix on Clarke’s brilliant blue. And maybe it is a trick of the light, but Eliza thinks she sees tears forming. “Make sure Madi doesn’t lose her wildness. Let her be crazy and spontaneous. I know what it feels like to have that diminished and I… I wouldn’t wish it on anyone. Remind Bellamy to open up again. He deserves to find someone who loves him… he has so much to give.”

Clarke frowns, “Eliza, I don’t think you understand what you have here. How much Lexa cares about you—”

“No, Clarke,” the duchess swears adamantly. “You don’t understand. Bellamy—”

The woman breathes in sharply, eyes widening. “You’re in love with him.”

_“What?”_

Clarke laughs, “You’re in love with Bellamy.”

“I…” Eliza starts, but any words of protest fail her.

Clarke’s face falls, realization dawning. “You’re in love with Bellamy… but _Lexa_ —”

“I didn’t mean for it to happen—”

_“How could you?”_

“How could I?” Eliza asks indignantly, voice growing louder. “How? Because he’s the most incredible person I’ve ever met. Because he cares about his daughter more than anyone in the world and would do anything for her, even sacrifice his own happiness, his own chance at love to keep her life stable and secure because he has _never_ had that. Maybe because he notices when I’m upset and he doesn’t let me twist my way around it. Because he—”

Clarke breathes in sharply, “I love Bellamy. I do. He is my best friend, but you have someone here who is willing to hang the moon for you, Eliza. Lexa bends over backwards to make you happy. She looks at you like… like she’s _never_ seen anything more beautiful in the world and then she tells you exactly that. She wants to know your ideas and dreams and help make them a reality. _Magnificient_. That’s what she said to me, she said “you are _magnificent_ —’”

“You’re in love with Lexa.”

“Yes!” Clarke shouts, throwing her hands wide. “I am. I am in love with your fiance who is desperately in love with _you_!”

Eliza just shakes her head, vision beginning to blur. Her mind feels like it’s caked in mud. This wasn’t supposed to happen. None of this was supposed to happen.

“What do we do?”

“Nothing,” Clarke laughs, but the sound is hollow and without humor. “This is your life. And I— I have to think about the competition. There’s nothing we can do except stick to the plan.”

“Stick to the plan,” the words fall flat from Eliza’s mouth, tasting like ash against her tongue. “Right.”

“Fuck this.”

Both Eliza and Clarke twist to look at Raven. The brunette’s arms are folded, her expression hard.

_“Excuse me?”_ Clarke huffs, eyes narrowing.

“I said ‘fuck this,’” Raven snaps, heated gaze bouncing between the two women. “Your plan is stupid and it should be changed. I’m not going to sit here and watch this bullshit.”

“Raven—”

Eliza glares at her friend, “So you think we should just tell everyone we’ve been lying to them?”

_“Yes.”_

Clarke shakes her head and Eliza snaps, “Wonderful. That would be the fastest way to completely ruin _both_ of our lives.”

“Or make them better!”

“Raven…” Clarke tries again, but the brunette just clenches her jaw. She stalks towards the door, wrenching it open.

Raven turns back at the last minute and hisses angrily, “You both are cowards.”

The door slams and Clarke jumps back, startled. Eliza sighs, “She’ll cool down… eventually.”

In the hallway, Raven lets out a frustrated shout. She does not feel like cooling down. She feels incendiary. Those two are systematically ruining both their chances at happiness… for what? Raven will not stand for it. She strides down the hall and whips her cell phone out, punching the first name in her recent calls. After three rings an amused voice drawls from the end:

_“I was about to call you. Fancy another round? I’m still lying where you left me and I can be more than ready by the time you—”_

“Shut up, Murphy,” Raven growls into the phone. “I’m about to tell you the little secret you’ve been so desperate to know this week… actually, it’s better if you see it for yourself. Go to the second room on the fourth floor of the east wing—

_“The one with the obnoxious flower drapes?”_

“Yes, that one. Go there. Take a long-range camera. You should be able to see into her grace’s bedchamber from there.”

_“Wow, wow, and what exactly do you want me to do with these illicit photographs?”_

Raven breathes in, cursing herself for what she is about to say. But after a long exhale, she states concisely, “I want you to show them to the queen.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oops! So my fluff fic turned a little angsty... Hope it wasn't too much! 
> 
> As always, your comments make my day <3 Thank you to every single reader following this story. It means a lot!


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys are the best <3 I love your comments more than I can say.

_**Rental House, Wembley, Polis - December 24th 2018 - 9:00 CET** _   


The smell of dough frying in butter fills the kitchen as Clarke flips three more pancakes, nodding in approval at their fluffy golden surfaces. When the kettle whistles, she spins and pours the hot water into four mugs. Breakfast is _almost_ ready… Clarke glances at the front door again, head cocking to listen for any movement from outside, for the sound of Bellamy returning home. But silence reigns and Clarke sighs, turning her attention back to the stove.

She had seen him for all of thirty seconds this morning. He was a chronically early riser yet when Clarke trailed downstairs right after eight, he had bolted up from the couch, hair mused, looking like he might have slept there. She had smiled cheerily, but he only frowned and announced he was going to pick Abby up from her hotel before breakfast. Clarke felt a slight twinge of annoyance and had to remind herself that it was just another day for him. He didn’t realize she had been gone nearly the whole week.

The pitter-patter of small feet echoes from the stairs and Clarke glances up to see Madi bounding down them two at a time. The blonde smiles wide as she carries a heaping plate of pancakes to the kitchen table. The kid barrels across the floor and swings her small arms around the blonde’s waist.

Madi looks up, squinting. “Is it really you?”

“It’s really me,” Clarke says with a chuckle.

The kid eyes her sharply, “What did you give me for my birthday last year?”

“Bellamy and I took you to see the Nutcracker and I made you a cake,” Clarke states matter-of-factly. Madi’s eyes drag past Clarke to rest on the golden flapjacks and the sight of them seems to quell any last doubts. But then she pulls back from Clarke with a sigh and sits heavily.

“It really is you.”

Clarke scoffs, “Try not to sound _too_ excited.”

“I am excited!” Madi insists, perking up slightly. _“I am.”_

“But?”

“I just…” Madi shrugs and looks down at the table, beginning to fiddle with the linen covering. “I just wish Eliza could have stayed too. It’s not fair that she has to marry that stuffy old queen who probably smells like mothballs—”

“Excuse me?” Clarke asks indignantly, resting her hands against her hips. “Lexa does _not_ smell like mothballs. And she’s not even old!”

“Whose _Lexa_?” Madi asks as Clarke fetches their tea and sets a cup in front of the girl.

“Lexa is the queen.”

“Oh? And how do you know what she smells like?” 

“She was at the castle and I…” Clarke pauses as a sudden longing swells in her throat. The feeling takes her by surprise. Not because it is new, but because it has been resting in the pit of her stomach, a dull manageable ache which now flares to life. Clarke tries to swallow, to focus. _That_ is what she needs. She exhales and smiles at Madi, “I spent the last couple of days with her.”

“Really?”

“Yes, and don’t give me that look.”

“What look? I just want to know what the queen is like.”

Clarke clears her throat as Lexa’s face appears in her mind. She attempts to shrug casually when she answers the kid, “The queen is kind and generous… and strong… and beautiful, very beautiful.”

“Uh-oh,” Madi whispers under her breath.

“What?”

The child tilts her head, “You’re into the queen, aren’t you?” 

“Well, I—”

“You are!”

“That’s beside the point,” Clarke huffs indignantly. “We have the competition tomorrow. We need to focus. Be ready.”

Loud footsteps from the porch draw Clarke’s attention and moments later the door swings open to reveal Bellamy and Abby in its frame. Clarke’s breath catches. When Eliza had told her about Bellamy’s gift, she had been completely overwhelmed. She had cried then. More tears than Clarke cares to admit. Now she bolts from her chair as the two arrivals use the doorframe to kick the snow from their boots. Clarke has her arms wrapped around Abby in about five seconds flat.

“Mom!”

Abby laughs, “Good morning to you too.” 

The blonde steps back laughing and then turns and throws her arms around Bellamy. _“Thank you,”_ she whispers, squeezing him. He stiffens against her, arms slack at his sides… but only for a moment. They wrap around her in an awkward, tentative embrace. And it’s strange — like really, _really_ strange in a way that Clarke doesn’t quite understand. When she pulls back to look at him, Bellamy just stares at her, brows furrowed, before extricating himself to walk over to the kitchen table.

“What’s going on? Did something happen between you two?” Abby whispers to Clarke as they follow slowly.

“No! I mean… not that I’m aware of.”

“Hmm.”

Clarke glances over at her mother and raises her eyebrows, “What does ‘hmm’ mean?”

“Nothing. Nothing. Come on, let’s eat. I’m starved.”

The four of them sit down to feast on the array of foods that Clarke has whipped up. There are fluffy golden pancakes, scrambled eggs, and thick rashers of bacon which drip more grease than should be legal. Tea and coffee warm their bellies. And toast with jam satisfies any sweet tooth. The tension seems to ease with the dissipating hunger, leaving laughter and jokes and holiday spirit in its wake. And it’s almost enough to make Clarke forget the dull panging in her chest. She smiles and it’s wider than she would have thought possible, because this is her family; she loves them dearly. The general merriment distracts Clarke, but eventually the number of furtive, odd glances from her mother becomes too many to discount. When Bellamy and Madi move to the kitchen, Clarke finally twists towards Abby with a sigh.

_“What?”_

The older woman’s eyes slide to Clarke’s throat. “Where’s your necklace?”

“What necklace, mom?”

Abby scoffs, “The one you’ve been wearing.”

“You’ll have to be more specific.”

“The one with the wishbone,” her mother frowns. “The silver wishbone necklace. ”

“I don’t have a necklace like that.”

Abby straightens, back rigid as her eyes search Clarke’s. Her expression transforms from confusion to something else, some other emotion which Clarke cannot decipher.

“Mom—”

“I… I think I’ll take Madi for a walk. You and Bellamy should talk. Whatever is going on is uncomfortable for everyone.”

“What?! Mom—”

Abby stands and calls Madi from the kitchen, beckoning the girl towards the front door before Clarke can even pretend to understand what is happening. Clarke rises as well, shaking her head, but her mother just slips on a coat, helps Madi into one, then waves over her shoulder as the two pass through the door.

“What was that about?”

Clarke turns around to face Bellamy, eyes wide, “I have no idea.”

“Really?”

_“Yes,”_ Clarke enunciates the word, disbelief coursing through her at his skeptical expression. Bellamy’s lips pinch into a thin line and he turns back towards the sink without another word.

“What?” Clarke sighs. “Seriously, what is going on with you?”

Bellamy shoots her a look that is so full of frustrated contempt that her jaw nearly drops to the floor. Huffing, Clarke steps around the island and asks again. “What. Is. Going. On?”

He stiffens.

“Bellamy.”

“No, Clarke.”

“What do you mean ‘No Clarke’?”

“I mean _no_ ,” he turns around sharply, shoulders rigid with tension. “I, Bellamy Blake, am saying no to you, Clarke Griffin. Something which hasn’t happened in a millennium so please don’t push me. I’m angry and upset and I don’t want to talk to you right now.”

“Bellamy—”

“Damnit Clarke!” he throws down the dish towel and walks into the living room before turning around. “Stay over there.”

_“What?”_

“Just…” he pinches the bridge of his nose, breathing in. “If you want to talk, fine. But stay over there.”

Clarke laughs, “I’m not going to talk to you from across a fucking room.”

He lets out a frustrated expletive, running, almost _ripping_ a hand through his hair. “Does what I want— what I _ask for_ not matter to you at all?”

“Of course it does—”

“Then why did you leave?!” He practically shouts the question at her. He closes his eyes briefly before continuing in a quieter, but equally heated tone. “I asked you not to, begged you to talk to me. Do you have any idea how worried I was? It was below freezing and you walked away with no coat just to get away from me! I drove around half the night looking for you. Then I passed out on the couch so I would know when you got home, but… but you just snuck by and now you’re acting like nothing happened!” 

Clarke shakes her head, “What are you talking about?” He wasn’t making any sense. What had Eliza done? What had _he_ done?

“Fine,” he sighs, throwing his arms out in defeat. “It’s fine. If you want to pretend like nothing has changed between us. Fine. If you want to act like the kiss never—”

“Kiss?” Clarke breathes out, shock rippling through her. This was not part of the plan. This is so far off the plan that it’s not even computing in Clarke’s mind. Her brain is short-circuiting. Even knowing that Eliza has feelings for him… Clarke had only thought it was theoretical, an ideal, _one-sided_. But the pain on his face is clear enough for her to see.

Bellamy laughs dejectedly, “Fine, Clarke. That’s fine.” He shakes his head at her baffled silence, heading for the door. Panic flashes through Clarke, hot and suffocating. Because he can’t leave. He’s her best friend. He promised they would always be best friends. She has to do something, has to make him understand. And the next words which leave Clarke’s mouth escape before they even have time to register in her brain.

“It wasn’t me.”

He stiffens, “Yeah, you’ve made that pretty clear.”

“No,” Clarke steps forward, holding his gaze. “It wasn’t _me_ .” Bellamy frowns and opens his mouth to protest, but Clarke quickly fills the space. “I met this woman outside the competition on our first day, after Echo spilled coffee on me. I met a woman who looked _exactly_ like me. She needed help, wanted to switch places for a few days and said she could get Madi into that summer dance program if I agreed…” Clarke opens her hands wide, hoping he can understand, “So I did. And I’ve been in a castle — you know that one we passed on our way here from the airport? — I’ve been there with her fiance since Tuesday and she… she’s been here. I don’t know what happened between you two, but… It wasn’t me, Bellamy.”

He stares at her, unmoving. His chest rises and falls in shorter and shorter breaths until finally his face factures - disbelief turns to horror, confusion to pain, trust to betrayal. Clarke feels the tearing somewhere deep in her soul and she steps forward, hands raised. “Bellamy…”

The tall man steps back, shaking his head, _“I knew it.”_

“What?”

“I _knew_ there was something off about you this week,” Bellamy breathes out raggedly, head still rocking back and forth as if he can no longer control the movement. “You were so different and it didn’t make any sense, but— _God,_ you shredded the itinerary!” A laugh erupts from his chest, but it sounds painful and hoarse, “and you didn’t know Echo and all the… the _flirting_. We haven’t flirted since high school! It has always been so clear cut between us and then there were lingering glances and touching and I thought I was going crazy—” 

He suddenly falls completely still, eerily silent as his eyes fix on the floorboards. His face undergoes some visceral transformation until he’s left staring blankly at the wood.

“Bellamy?” Clarke steps forwards slowly, again trying to minimize the distance between them.

“I don’t want to talk anymore.”

“Bell—”

He clenches his jaw, but Clarke can see the muscles of his mouth quiver. He breathes in and anyone else might be fooled, but it’s Clarke. Clarke can see how he struggles to keep his whole face from crumbling as he says, “She _left…_ she just left me, confused… with this _lie_.”

Clarke’s heart breaks a bit at that confession, for Bellamy, but also for Lexa. Because that’s exactly what Clarke has done to her. Left her with a lie. The blonde swallows, “She didn’t have a choice—”

“There’s always a choice, Clarke. You know that.”

“I’ve lied to…”

“No,” he states firmly. “No, you just told me the truth. But she…” He laughs again, rubbing a hand roughly over his face before raking it through his hair and admitting, “I don’t even know her name.”

“It’s—”

“Don’t tell me. Please,” he breathes out hoarsely.

Clarke feels tears welling up in her eyes at the shattered quality to his voice. What would she want Eliza to say? If Lexa knew the truth, if she was as broken by it as Bellamy now appears, what would she want Eliza to tell her? Clarke takes the last few steps between them, “She… she’s in love with you. She loves you, Bellamy.”

His face hardens and he swallows once, before looking at her. He only says three words, but they stick like black tar to the bottom of Clarke’s heart.

“I don’t care.”

**_The Palace, Outside of Wembley, Polis - December 24th 2018 - 10:30 CET_**  


Her reflection in the mirror stares back unkindly. There are dark circles under her eyes and bright splotches along her cheeks — the mottled surface her face always becomes after shedding so many tears. And even though the effect is familiar, it has been years since she let herself break down like this and the sight is an awkward reminder. Eliza takes in a deep breath and begins to blot foundation over her blemishes, methodically concealing each one.

Her eyes drag to the picture on the vanity, the shiny paper folded in half and set to the side as if forgotten. The makeup brush stills in Eliza’s hand as her eyes devour the blank, white surface, knowing exactly what is hidden beneath. She takes a breath and then reaches out quickly. Her free hand knocks the bent photograph from the vanity and towards the small rubbish bin. The thick paper catches along the rim causing it to fall to the floor instead.

Eliza swallows and forces herself to look back at the vanity. She tries to ignore the tremor in her hand, but it grows steadily. The movement builds as she finishes her foundation, as she attempts to contour her face and add blush, trembling until her fingers spasm so much that the eyeliner is more likely to add an injury than conceal any. Eliza lays down the pencil and takes another deep breath. On the exhale, she bends down to retrieve the photograph. As she flattens it against the vanity, a watery smile pulls at her face. It’s a copy of the Main Street photo — of her, Madi, and Bellamy punch-drunk on something the photographer said. Her fingers trace the smiles on all their faces as a weight lodges firmly in her throat.

“Liza?”

The duchess folds the picture quickly and throws it in the trash before turning back to the vanity. Fighting down the lump in her throat, Eliza dabs the moisture from her eyes with a tissue. Movement in the mirror catches her attention as Raven bends down to grab the discarded paper.

Eliza twists around swiftly, _“Don’t!”_

Raven frowns at the photo in her hands and then up at her best friend. Her brows furrow in a different way, confusion turning to pity or something similar as she opens her mouth, “Liza—”

“Please don’t,” Eliza breathes out, holding up her hands. 

The brunette’s face hardens, “So you really are going through with this?”

“I don’t have a choice.”

“You are miserable!”

Eliza’s jaw works, “I— My happiness has nothing to do with it. It’s my duty, Raven.”

“Your duty?”

“Yes,” Eliza snaps.

“Define duty.”

“What?”

Raven glares, “Just do it.”

“Duty,” she glowers back, “a responsibility. A moral or legal obligation.”

Raven simply raises her arms as if to say _‘see_ ,’ but Eliza doesn’t know what she is supposed to glean from that. Raven rests her hands on her hips, “What do you think will happen if you refuse to marry the queen?”

“I—” Eliza starts, but Raven cuts her off.

“You won’t be arrested. No one is going to hang you. We live in the twenty-first century for fuck’s sake! So there’s _‘legality’_ out of the picture.”

“Raven—”

The brunette rolls her eyes at Eliza’s weak protest, “So it’s moral duty then? Define morality.”

“Stop!” Eliza growls, pushing off the bench. She brushes past Raven, but the brunette simply stalks after her.

“Define morality, Liza.”

“Why are you doing this?” Eliza spins around, nearly shouting.

“Because you won’t do it for yourself! I have watched you wither year after year from this so-called _duty_ ,” the brunette spits out the word, “and each time you grow defiant, you hiss and moan and say it’s unfair, but then eventually you cave—”

“Stop!”

“—because deep down, despite how much you may not want to admit it, you care what people think about you, what your _father_ thinks about you. You are paralyzed by the possibility of being a disappointment.”

Eliza’s mouth trembles as Raven’s words hit her firmly in the chest and burrow deep. Warmth bites at her eyes and she turns away, unable to look at her friend anymore. But Raven only continues, though her voice is softer now.

“You can be angry at me for saying this. But now is not the time for me to sit back and support you… not while you’re being a complete pushover—”

Eliza spins back around, face reddening, “I’m not being—”

“—You are! Now, define morality. Or don’t. But at least show some courage and tell me to fuck off.”

The duchess breathes in deeply. Raven’s brown eyes blaze, unwavering and hard. Eliza looks to the ceiling then back down, biting out, “Morality is a set of principles concerning right and wrong, good and bad behavior.”

Raven smiles tightly, “Now tell me… is it _right_ to marry someone when you are in love with another person?”

“No,” Eliza whispers.

“Is it right to withhold the truth from your fiance? When she is actually in love with a completely different person and has no idea?”

Eliza swallows, crossing her arms.

“Is it right to make yourself miserable because you’re too afraid of disappointment?”

A few tears tumble down Eliza’s cheeks.

“Duty,” Raven states finally, stepping closer, “is not what you’ve been taught. But if you still don’t believe me, look at this.”

Eliza frowns as Raven slips a red velvet box into her hands. “What is this?”

“It’s a gift from the queen. Clarke asked me to pass it on to you.”

Inside the box is a golden crest with three words inscribed around the head of a stag: _Ridiyo, Koma,_ _Hodnes_. Eliza bites her lips then whispers, “Truth. Honor. And Love.”

Raven nods, “It doesn’t say anything about duty, Liza.”

The duchess lets out a stilted exhale that sounds halfway between a sob and a laugh, shaking her head. Footsteps echo as Raven moves away.

“Oh and…” the brunette turns from the doorway. “The queen wants to see you.”

Eliza’s gaze snaps up and her stomach plummets as Raven slides the door shut. Lexa wanted to see her? What should Eliza say? Should she keep pretending or tell Lexa the truth? Maybe she should call Clarke first? They could show up together… no, the queen might have a heart attack.

Thoughts race through her mind without any coherence or decision. Her whole life, Eliza has been taught to plan for every scenario. She has been taught theory and strategy and politics, but none of it has ever felt natural. She doesn’t revel in the planning of something, not like Clarke does. So by the time she has thrown on clothes and left her bedroom, Eliza still has no clue what the hell she is going to do.

Her pulse hammers as she walks in great loping strides which are far from delicate. And her brows are twisted by indecision when a door to her left opens suddenly and her father steps through. Eliza’s heart stalls for a fraction of a second, just enough for her feet to become roots beneath her.

“Ah, Eliza dear,” he smiles, stepping into the corridor.

She straightens her spine, “Marcus.”

The Grand Duke pauses, appraising her, then admits, “I’m glad I caught you. Have a moment?”

“I’m actually on my way to see the queen,” Eliza gestures down the hallway. “Maybe we can speak later?”

“I’ll walk with you.”

He falls into step beside her and Eliza measures her strides to keep them light and even. She swallows, “What did you wish to speak about?”

“I only wanted to tell you how glad I am to see you so happy with the queen.”

Eliza stiffens, “I— Well—” _That wasn’t me_ , she thinks.

“It’s a good match, for you and for Arkadia.”

“I know that, Marcus.”

He turns to her, “What happened to ‘dad’?”

“What?”

“Yesterday, you called me dad,”

Eliza’s throat closes around that fact, “Did I?”

“Eliza,” he stops, grasping her arm to halt her progress as well. “Did I do something to upset you? I thought giving you and Lexa space would be a nice gesture, but if you wanted me to stay…”

She stares back at him, all the things she never said throughout the years bubbling to the surface. All the times she was picked at and prodded by strangers. Shoved into outfits she liked by people she liked even less. The formal, impersonal birthday dinners which were the only times she ever truly had his undivided attention… at least until she was twelve. Then she had been ‘old enough to celebrate on her own’ and the presents showed up sans gifter. The increasing disapproval in his eyes as she began to act out more and more just for some sort of reaction.

Raven had been wrong. It wasn’t that she was afraid of disappointing her father. No, she had been steadily achieving that for years. Eliza was afraid of being non-existent, irrelevant, _inconsequential_ to his life. That one day she would go too far and he would just disappear altogether — the only family she had ever known gone because of her mistake. This one last act, this duty to unite Arkadia and Polis, felt like the only thing holding them together. The last feeble string tying his life to hers. Maybe she would be miserable, but she would finally achieve something, be worth _something_ in her father’s ledger.

But… as Eliza stares into those familiar brown eyes, narrowed over her face in contemplation, she feels like those words in her head are no longer enough. Not now that she knows what it feels like to be carefree, to be loved, to be silly and reckless and laugh until her stomach hurt. Not now that she knows what it feels like to love the person she is, to love herself.

“I can’t do this,” she breathes out, the words expelling from her like a gust of air.

“We can talk later—”

Eliza shakes her head, “I can’t do _this_ for you. I don’t want to marry the queen. I can’t do this.”

Marcus frowns, stepping closer. “But the other day… you seemed so happy—”

“That wasn’t me,” she laughs and her hands float up to her chest. “None of this has ever been _me_. I don’t belong in this world. _I can’t be who you want me to be._ ” Her father steps back as if her words are a physical blow and his face becomes ashen. Eliza rushes on, trying to explain it again, to explain it better, “I can’t pretend—”

“Stop,” he raises a hand, voice rough and ragged. “Stop…” Marcus runs that hand over his face, his head shaking back and forth against his palm. He whispers something too soft to hear and presses the heel of his hand against his eyes.

“Marcus…” Eliza steps forward and when he doesn’t respond she says softly, “Dad?” His shoulders rise then fall, head bending into his hands and Eliza feels panic swell within her at the sight. Her father has always been a reserved, cynical sort of man and to see him so fragile… the sight cinches invisible strings around her heart. 

He drops his hands to look at her. But his eyes seem to stare through her, almost like he’s looking at a ghost. “You— That’s exactly what your mother said to me.” 

“What?” Eliza steps forward, one hand floating up like she might touch him. And that’s all it takes. He moves forward to wrap his arms around her in a vice-like grip, a visceral sort of hug.

“I don’t care what you do, Eliza. Marry the queen. Don’t marry the queen. I just— I just don’t want to lose you. Just promise me that I won’t lose you. I can’t— I can’t do that again. Not again.”

His words are whispered in a rush by her ear and Eliza feels a few more tears slide down her cheeks at the admission. Her arms come up to hold her father and she turns her face into his shoulder. Relief courses through her, sharp and sweet, and it finds release through her tears. “I’m not going anywhere, dad. _I’m right here._ ”

They hold each other for longer than she thought possible, until the distance of the past seems to seep away and her arms begin to fall asleep. She brushes away the tear tracks from his face and smiles up at him. His answering smile, watery as it may be, spreads hers even wider. And it’s with that hopeful expression that she walks towards the queen’s study. With a smile on her face that she finally determines to tell Lexa the truth. To do the right thing. For Clarke. For herself. For everyone. Her moral obligation. Her _duty_.

She sends a swift knock against the door then turns the brass handle, entering. The sun streams through the large window at the far end and illuminates the warm palette of the office. The queen looks up from her desk, hair almost like spun honey in the sunlight. Eliza breathes in deeply to steady herself as she pushes the door shut behind her and begins to walk forward. Lexa’s sharp gaze follows her progress across the room until the duchess stops just short of the desk.

“You’re late.”

Eliza clears her throat, “Yes, I… I ran into my father.”

The queen’s eyes narrow and she lifts up a few sheets of paper from her desk. Eliza’s gaze darts down and she realizes that the items which Lexa holds are not sheets of paper at all. They are photographs, five or six, from different angles. Photographs of Eliza and Clarke, _together_. Talking. Two identical women in different clothing.

Eliza’s mouth falls open, heart pumping rapidly in her chest as the queen slowly drops each photograph one by one onto the desk in front of her. Lexa tilts her head, green eyes dragging up to pierce through the duchess.

“I can explain,” Eliza starts quickly, raising her hands in placation.

The queen only smiles, a thin white line slashing cruelly across her face, before she answers in a hard voice.

_“Good.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just finished writing the full story so updates will be coming out every day now! Your comments give me life so keep them coming!!


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is, you guys. The Climax™ haha. Enjoy!
> 
> _Side note:_ What with family coming into town and trying to update every day, I haven't had time to answer all your lovely comments. But they mean the world and please keep leaving them! I'll respond when the story wraps up xx

**_The Palace, Outside of Wembley, Polis - December 24th 2018 - 11:00 CET_ **

“Well?” Lexa arches her eyebrows when Eliza only stares back, mouth frozen open. _Bugger_. How does one even explain this?

“There was this woman,” she begins, “at the baking competition. The day that I was supposed to inspect the set. She… well, she looked exactly like me and I thought— No, I better go back further.” Eliza’s shifts and begins to pace in front of the queen’s desk. “Emm, well… I don’t like you… like _that_. You’re obviously a fine person and all, but… it’s so _awkward_ between us. Surely you’ve felt it,” she glances at the queen, but Lexa’s eyes are hard and impenetrable. “I was unhappy even before coming to Polis. And when I met Clarke, I saw an opportunity to _breathe_ a bit, to take some of the pressure off. I asked her to switch places with me for a few days, but… but things changed, something… happened. I mean, _obviously_ you know that since Clarke is under the impression that you’re in love with me, which we both know is not true.” Eliza bites her lips, hands lacing together as she turns to stare at Lexa. “Please say something.”

The queen is silent for some time, the minutes stretching out as she gazes down at the photographs. When she finally speaks, it’s only one word. _“Clarke.”_

“Yes,” Eliza breathes out. “Clarke. That’s her name. She’s from Chicago and—”

“I didn’t think you had siblings.”

“What?”

“Is she your sister? How do you look so similar?”

Eliza shakes her head, “We’re not related. I’m not sure how this genetic oddity happened, but it did… and I’m sorry I lied to you. In fact, I’m sorry I was going to _continue_ to lie to you. I just— I thought it was my duty to do this even if it made me unhappy and— wait, how did you get these photographs?”

“Murphy.”

_“Raven,”_ Eliza curses, glancing at the ceiling. “I was going to tell you! Although, I only decided recently… which is probably why Raven orchestrated this,” her eyes slide to the photos on the desk. “She does love you, you know.”

Lexa frowns, “Raven?”

“No! Clarke. I meant Clarke.”

“Oh,” Lexa nods and her eyes trail once more along the photographs. She points at one. “Clarke is in the robe.”

Eliza bends over, “Yes… how could you tell?”

“She has a mole on her collarbone. And you don’t. I thought it was strange, but… I blamed it on my previous apathy about our relationship.”

Eliza leans against the desk. “So you agree then that there wasn’t any chemistry between us?”

Lexa snorts, shifting back in her chair. “None.”

“Negative chemistry,” Eliza laughs.

The queen rolls her eyes but smirks. Then a frown creases her brows, “When exactly did you switch?”

“The afternoon of the 19th. When you came by and Raven was there, it was Clarke you spoke with. I was… hiding behind the bed.”

Lexa shakes her head, “I knew there was something strange about that bed.”

“You’re not mad?” Eliza queries cautiously. “I mean, you’re taking this rather well. Better than I expected.”

“I was… not pleased when I saw these photographs, but neither was I surprised. I was aware _something_ had shifted. And knowing now that I was interacting with a whole different person… it just makes sense.”

“And?”

Lexa shrugs, “And I don’t like you either— not like _that_. Clarke felt like some kind of miracle and now I know that she really was.”

“So what do we do?”

“Please forgive me, but I don’t wish to marry you.”

“Really?” Eliza breathes out a sigh of relief. “Me neither!”

Lexa slaps her palms against the desk, “It’s decided then. This betrothal is officially null and void.”

“Congratulation, your majesty,” Eliza curtsies with a smirk.

The queen chuckles, “And felicitous tidings to you, your grace.” Lexa stands and straightens the velvet lapel of her suit. She clasps her hands behind her back and looks expectantly at Eliza. “As you are now only an ambassador in Polis, I can ask you to assist me with my American diplomacy.”

Eliza grins and returns rather sheepishly, “I might need your majesty’s help as well.”

“As long as you lead me to Clarke, my skills are at your disposal.”

“I have a feeling,” the duchess states slowly, “that we might find our conquests in the same place.”

“Oh?”

“How much did Clarke teach you about baking?”

“Not nearly enough,” Lexa states truthfully, sliding her hands into her pockets.

Eliza smirks, holding the queen’s sharp gaze, “Then it’s a good thing we only have to hand out the ribbons.”

_**Baking Competition Set, Wembley, Polis - December 25th 2018 - 10:00 CET**_  


“On your mark, get set, BAKE!” The buzzer goes off and Clarke’s vision narrows on her workbench as the whole room turns into chaos. She steps forward and rips their To-Do list in half along the edge of a ruler. And then twisting towards Bellamy, she hands him one piece.

“Ready?”

He nods, “Ready.”

“We got this, okay?”

He gives her a pointed look, “ _You_ got this. Now let’s go.”

Clarke nods with a smile and then shifts into gear. Her body works with an intuition of its own, making genoise sponge from muscle memory so that her brain can focus on the next three steps. She separates the eggs and dumps the whites into the stand mixer before flipping the switch. Nothing happens. Clarke frowns. She bends over the workbench, fingers running along the extension cord which is strangely loose… too loose. Clarke pulls at the cord and finds a frayed wire at the end where the plug should be. This is not good. They can’t whip this many eggs by hand. It will eat up too much of their time.

“Bellamy,” Clarke's voice is panicked. She spins around, holding up the faulty cord.

“What the hell?” He leaves the raspberries simmering on the stove to frown down at the wire. Then some realization takes hold of his features and he looks across the room. Clarke follows his gaze and sees Echo. The woman raises her eyebrows in challenge and gives them a short, sardonic salute.

He starts forward, seething, “That fucking bitch—”

“Hey, hey!” Clarke steps in front of him, drawing his gaze. “There’s nothing we can do. It’s our word against hers and if we start arguing with her, we will only have less time to make something.”

“Clarke—” he hisses, throwing a hand out, his body visibly taut from the anger vibrating beneath his skin.

“Just go find us a hand mixer. Someone is bound to have one.” But when Bellamy’s eyes only narrow and flick back across the room, Clarke forcefully grabs his arm. “ _This is not you._ This explosive, angry person is _not_ you. It hasn’t been for years. I know you feel hurt and alone and I’m sorry for that, but I need Bellamy, my best friend, right now. Can you do that?”

His eyes clear slightly, taken aback by the power in her voice. Then he blinks and nods in one jerking motion. It takes five minutes for Bellamy to acquire a hand mixer and then Clarke sets about turning the egg whites into meringue. Another fifteen fly by and she has measured the cake batter into nine different pans and shoved them into the oven. The minutes slip away until keeping up with their schedule begins to feel like trying to catch a fish with bare hands.

“Just— Just put them in the blast chiller,” Clarke shakes her head. “Hopefully they will cool in time.”

Bellamy runs the sponges to the freezer and then helps Clarke start on a whipped mascarpone icing, flavoring it with cardamom and rum. As the countdown begins to dwindle and the final hour of the competition looms, the cakes are cool enough to be frosted. The whole showstopper has three tiers and each tier is made of three layers of vanilla genoise sponge. Clarke fills the layers with fresh raspberry jam and then frosts them with the mascarpone. Finally, Bellamy and Clarke place tempered chocolate decorations around the outside.

“Five, four, three, two, one! Time’s up!”

Clarke lifts her hands away from the cake. She turns to Bellamy but before she can even step forward, he has her wrapped in an enveloping hug. A smile spreads across her face. This is a real Blake hug. Full strength. Full heart. She crosses her arms firmly around him and squeezes in turn.

“We did it, Blake,” she looks up, smiling.

He nods, affection doing its job to ease the tension from his face, “You bet, Griffin.”

They step back together, arm in arm, as the judges begin to circuit the room. Clarke looks at her cake and feels a twinge run through her. Something bittersweet. Because on the cake in fine gold letters are three words: _Ridiyo_ , _Komas_ , and _Hodnes_. The letters curve above small chocolate collars of deer grazing and sprigs of chocolate holly rest at the top of each layer, drawing the eye with their vibrant color.

The judges finish their rounds — Clarke’s sponge is slightly too dense, but the flavor is delicious. Then the contestants must wait for the panel to deliberate. Clarke can feel Bellamy rigid with tension beside her. And she wonders whether it’s from the anticipation of waiting or something else that had already taken root. Clarke knows that the thrumming in her own blood is a mixture of both. There is a keening whine, a jarring C sharp singing in her bones like a note that has been drawn out for too long and will soon break. Clarke dreads the end of this competition. Because once it is over there will be nothing left to distract her from that horrible whine.

“Whatever happens, it was worth it,” Clarke whispers to Bellamy as the judges head for the podium. The announcement due. “I’m glad we came. I’m glad _you_ convinced me to come. Thank you.”

He swallows visibly and looks down at her, “You’re my best friend, Clarke. Always.”

_“Always.”_

And maybe because it’s the end. Because there’s that biting sting in her blood, but Clarke can feel words bubbling to the surface. It takes all her energy to hold them inside, but she does. For him. So that she can _ask_.

“Can I tell you something I was thinking about?”

“Is it going to make me more or less upset?”

She grimaces, “More. Maybe.”

“Alright,” Bellamy says with a sigh. “Hit me.”

Clarke twists slightly towards him even as the loudspeaker crackles to life. “Do you think maybe the reason you are so hurt by what happened isn’t actually the thing itself? I mean, I was thinking about it earlier…” Bellamy starts to frown and she rushes on, trying to explain, “You thought you were falling in love with your best friend, with someone you’ve known for over a decade, someone you trust implicitly. Then you found out that was not the case at all. The person you care for is actually a complete stranger. You’re vulnerable and that’s terrifying.”

“Clarke—”

“You don’t have to answer, just think about it. I— it put some stuff into perspective for me.”

Bellamy exhales, “You’re terrified?”

“I’m shitting my pants, Bell.”

He chuckles and pulls her closer, but the movement is stunted by the loudspeaker crackling again, _“And our first runner-up is… Echo Azgeda from Boston, USA! Which makes our grand champion for this year’s International Christmas Baking Competition… Clarke Griffin!”_

Bellamy punches the air, “You won!”

“I won?” she laughs, eyes widening. “Oh my god, we won, Bell! We can expand the store and buy the new mixer and—”

He shakes his head with a smile and picks her up, spinning her around. Clarke belts out a deep belly-laugh and then breathes heavily as Bellamy sets her down. Her blue eyes scan the audience for her mom and Madi, but two different, equally familiar faces snag her focus.

Next to the podium, draped in an immaculate white suit stands the Queen of Polis, her face an impenetrable mask of regal solemnity. Beside her in a quetzal green dress is the Duchess of Arkadia, bright eyes concealed by large gold-rimmed sunglasses. And if the blonde baker’s mind was not already reeling, taking in the third and final figure cut by the Grand Duke himself throws her senses over the edge. Clarke takes three deep breaths as her eye progressively become round discs of cerulean blue.

“Oh shit,” Clarke mutters. “Oh forking shirtballs. What the actual fuck?”

“Clarke?” Bellamy’s voice is low and concerned beside her, but the blonde cannot formulate a response. And she doesn’t need to. Clarke knows the exact moment Bellamy spots the royal guests because his breath leaves him in a large, explosive exhale that sounds more like _‘fuck’_ than any other word in the English language.

**_Baking Competition Set, Wembley, Polis - December 25th 2018 - 15:30 CET_ **

Eliza’s hands tremble slightly and she clasps them together to steady herself. She found Madi and Abby in the crowd almost immediately after entering. Their eyes were focused on the chaotic set and following their line of sight brought her directly to two familiar faces. Now her eyes are frozen on Bellamy, on his furrowed brow as Clarke whispers in his ear. He turns to face Clarke and then the blonde baker’s name is called out. The crowd erupts into a deafening cheer and Eliza smiles as Madi and Abby jump to their feet, hollering.

Lexa’s lips twitch up beside her and Eliza raises her hands to clap along with everyone else. But her eyes are drawn back to Bellamy. She watches as his expression softens and he lifts Clarke up in a triumphant victory twirl, the two laughing excitedly. And because she’s looking, Eliza notices when Clarke’s jubilant expression freezes and her mouth forms a dramatic expletive. Those blue eyes slide over Eliza and Lexa and Marcus, widening by enormous increments.

“Your majesty, if you please,” the head judge indicates that Lexa should step forward.

The queen nods and strides into place followed by a man bearing the victors’ ribbons. Eliza walks with them and stands at the queen’s side. A fluttering anticipation builds in her gut as the contestants begin to line up. The baker in fourth place moves forward and Eliza places a yellow ribbon on his companion while Lexa drapes one over the baker himself. Then the pair in third steps forward. And when Echo walks up to claim second place, the duchess slowly removes her shades to meet the woman’s gaze. The brunette’s mouth opens and she twists back as if to ensure that Clarke has not somehow rigged the whole thing with some superior ploy.

“Your phone is with my assistant,” Eliza smiles politely, inclining her head towards Raven where her friend stands by the wall.

“My phone?”

“You must have dropped it on Main Street.” Echo’s eyes narrow, but Eliza only adds, “Congratulations, Ms. Azgeda.”

Then the tall brunette and her companion are moving out of the way and it’s Clarke’s turn. The blonde baker hunches over, one hand raised in a ridiculous attempt to cover her face. And Eliza realizes that Clarke is staring pointedly at her, trying to get the duchess’ attention. The American jerks her gaze towards the queen and then back to Eliza as if you say ‘ _What are you doing? What am I doing? What the hell is the plan?’_ The duchess almost laughs because… there is no plan. Instead, Eliza shrugs subtly and gives the other woman a reassuring smile. The blonde baker seems to realize her paltry attempt at disguise is fruitless. Clarke drops her hands and straightens, clearing her throat. She looks at the queen.

“Hi.”

Eliza can feel Lexa exhale beside her. And it’s almost as if a visible change comes over the monarch. Her shoulders relax, features soften, and a light smile plays at her lips. As if Lexa had been holding her breath until now, until that one small greeting. Eliza grips her hands tighter and finally drags her gaze back to Bellamy. His jaw is rigid and his eyes are fixed somewhere in the crowd beyond her head. She opens her mouth, but no sound comes out.

Clarke beats her to the punch, “So, um… what’s going on here?”

“You’ve won the competition, have you not?” Lexa replies smartly, lifting the last ribbon.

The blonde baker stares at the monarch like Lexa is missing a few marbles and her eyes dart briefly to Eliza as the queen steps forward and slips the gold sash around Clarke’s head.

The duchess looks back at Bellamy and finds that his gaze has settled on her. But it doesn’t look how she imagined, how she hoped. There is a strange, blank indifference in his eyes that is wholly unfamiliar. No shock, no surprise paints his brow. As if he already knows all of her secrets. Eliza steps forward despite the trepidation pounding through her system. Her pulse races as Bellamy’s dark eyes track her every movement. He bows his head and she slips the thin sash around it. She tries not to let her eyes linger on the cut of his white smock and how it accentuates his broad shoulders.

“Bellamy,” she starts softly, her voice higher, more lilting, distinctly Arkadian in cadence. It’s different than she has ever used with him and she can tell the moment it registers. He steps back slightly, face shuttering, more guarded. But she expected that, right? Eliza just needs to explain everything.

She turns to Clarke for guidance, assistance maybe. The duchess doesn’t really know. But her eyes catch on a different figure and her breath stalls. Abby has left her seat and dragged Madi down the floor with her, though the kid looks only too happy to comply. The older woman inhales shallowly with her eyes flickering back and forth between Eliza and Clarke. Abby raises a hand to her chest, clutching at her own sternum as if her heart threatens beat out of her ribs. The duchess shifts, concern setting in her bones.

“Clarke,” Eliza says sharply, drawing the baker’s attention towards her mother. Clarke turns towards the older woman and her wide eyes take on a deeper panic. Clarke crosses the small distance to her mother even as Eliza steps forward.

“Mom? What is it?” Clarke murmurs in a low voice. “Is it your heart?”

_“Abby?”_

Eliza whirls around as the gravelly voice of her father rings out behind them. He’s left the podium and walks towards the group with slow measured steps. Disbelief paints his rigid features, but he calls the woman’s name again. Like he knows her.

“Marcus— Dad?” Eliza reaches for him as he passes, but he only spares her the briefest glance before his gaze tears back to Clarke and her mother.

Abby’s face whitens visibly as Marcus steps around his daughter and the queen, speaking her name again. Eliza frowns and her mind begins to buzz with white noise. A nagging sensation rests just on the tip of her tongue.

“ _Marcus_ ,” Abby breathes out, the name half-formed upon her lips. And she utters the word like something once familiar, loved even, which has become rusty from years of disuse. She shakes her head, an almost awe-like gesture, as her gaze drinks in the Grand Duke’s form. And Eliza’s father stares back with a fervent intensity like he is afraid one blink might dissolve the illusion.

Something clicks in Eliza’s mind and she breathes in sharply. Her eyes dart to that identical blue and she sees Clarke in an equal state of revelation. But it feels almost impossible to name, impossible accept.

“Who are you?” the duchess finally asks, noting how Abby flinches before her gaze slides guiltily back towards Eliza and Clarke.

Lexa clears her throat before the woman can respond, “Perhaps we should move to a different room. I think some privacy is in order. Murphy!” 

“Majesty,” the man appears almost out of thin air and then disappears backstage. There is an awkward silence, broken only by the murmuring of the audience. Eliza’s eyes move around their small circle, from Lexa on her right all the way around to Bellamy on her left, who now stands a conservative distance away having drawn closer to his daughter’s side. The general consensus appears to be a certain cautious distrust, an expression which paints every face but Madi’s. The child smiles wide and throws Eliza a small thumbs up. A lightness steals over the duchess and she returns the gesture. 

Before long Murphy reappears and leads them backstage into a large warehouse filled with old stage pieces, a strangely macabre, Picasso-esque setting.

**_Backstage, Baking Competition Set, Wembley, Polis - December 25th 2018 - 15:55 CET_ **

“Will someone please tell me what the hell is going on?” Clarke demands when the door closes behind Raven. The blonde glares at her mother, a strange sense of foreboding building the longer Abby avoids her gaze. Clarke grits her teeth and narrows her gaze onto Eliza’s father who has yet to take his dark eyes from Abby’s face. Beside her, Eliza crosses both arms.

“I agree with Clarke.”

“Oh no,” Clarke laughs sharply, turning. “You don’t get to agree with me. _You_ have some explaining to do as well. What are you even doing here?” Eliza’s mouth parts without sound, stalling, and her gaze darts over to Bellamy. He has Madi pulled against him and though he is a tall man, the two are dwarfed by a large paper mache dog’s head. What _that_ was used for or why it would be worth storing, Clarke has no time to contemplate. The queen’s cool voice carries across the room.

“Diplomacy usually works best with one issue at a time.”

The blonde twists to look at Lexa. The upward tilt of the monarch’s lips indicates her amusement. Clarke frowns. This is _not_ funny. She can feel the heat rising in her cheeks alongside her swelling temper.

“Maybe we should leave,” Bellamy offers, moving him and Madi towards the door. A sharp breath sounds from Clarke’s right.

“Please stay,” Eliza implores. Bellamy’s jaw tightens and he raises his eyebrows slowly, holding the woman’s gaze. Something passes between them and it looks like Eliza is about to say more, but then Bellamy grimaces.

“Fine, but Madi goes. I don’t want her—”

“WHAT?!” The kid tries to claw her way out of her dad’s firm hold. She glares up at him, “If you’re staying, I’m staying.”

“That’s not how it works, squirt.”

“But—”

Raven steps forward, “I can take her.” Bellamy pulls Madi closer to him, frowning, but Clarke speaks up quickly.

“She’s fine, Bell. Raven’s good.”

His lips pinch into a firm line, but he nods his head. Then looking down at Madi, he murmurs, “I’ll tell you everything that happens, okay?” 

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

Madi nods and then takes Raven’s outstretched hand, the two disappearing through the door moments later. Bellamy rounds on the group, face drawn and eyes hard. “Somebody start talking.”

Clarke crosses her arms, “Mom?”

Abby clears her throat as she shifts away from Marcus. Then clears it again, almost like a tick as her face fluctuates between vibrant pink and stark white. “I— I—” she breathes out, looking at Clarke with a desperate sort of guilt. “I’m so sorry, baby. I… I lied to you. Your father never died. It just seemed easier to say that knowing he wouldn’t be in your life, but I never thought… I never guessed…”

“What are you talking about?” Clarke shakes her head as a swift biting anger grips her. “What are you—”

“This man,” Abby points at Marcus, “is your father.”

“The Grand Duke of Arkadia?”

Abby nods.

“Nope,” Clarke states firmly. _“No.”_ She feels Eliza shift beside her and glances over. The identical blonde looks shell-shocked, her eyes fixed on Abby’s face.

“My mother died,” Eliza breathes out shakily. “She died when I was two years old. It was winter time. She had horrible pneumonia… My mother _died_. She only left me a—”

“A silver wishbone necklace,” Abby finishes and the blood seems to drain from Eliza’s face. 

Marcus swallows, stepping forward with hands raised. Clarke snorts derisively and covers her face with her hands before he even begins speaking. She knows what he’s going to say.

“Eliza,” the Grand Duke’s voice is surprisingly steady. “I had no clue where your mother had gone. I only knew she wasn’t coming back and— and it’s not an excuse. I was young and prideful and I thought it would feel less painful to fabricate a different story. I thought it would help you sleep easier to not wonder why your mother left—”

“You could have reached out,” Abby’s voice is quiet, but sharp enough to cut through his words. “If you wanted to, you could have reached out and _asked_ me where I was.”

Marcus falters then frowns, “I had no way to communicate with you. I had no phone number or email address. You erased everything and then left.”

“No, I didn’t. We agreed on a year apart,” Abby argues indignation beginning to color her face. “I left a phone number, but you never called. And then that ridiculous article was published about my tragic death—”

“That was three years _after_ you left!” Marcus shakes his head. “I forced myself to wait, to be patient until the year was up, but you never came home. And then I looked for you. For two years, I looked. I hired teams of people to help me, but I never found where you went and I assumed that was deliberate. That you had decided you were never coming back.”

“Why didn’t you just call, Marcus? Just once! I thought you didn’t care—”

“Abby,” he looks at her with utter devastation in his brown eyes. “There was no number—” He holds up his hands when she starts to protest, “I believe you! I _believe_ you. But whatever information you left behind… it never found its way to me.”

“Oh god,” she whispers, fingers rising to cover her mouth. A sob releases from her throat and then Marcus closes the distance between them. He circles Abby within his arms, drawing her close.

His head bows, buried in Abby’s hair, and Clarke almost misses the quiet _‘I’ve missed you’_ which has them both clinging to each other.

Eliza murmurs at Clarke’s side, “Are you as angry at them as I am?”

Clarke snorts, “I’m fuming, can’t you tell?”

“It’s hard to be livid while their practically… _wailing_ ,” Eliza’s eyes slide back to their parents. Clarke knows exactly what she means. It’s nearly impossible to decipher any feelings at the moment. She’s too overwhelmed by the fact that her father is suddenly very much alive and that she has a sister… a twin _._ That thought hits her in the gut. She twists towards Eliza.

“When’s your birthday?”

The duchess frowns, “October twenty—”

“Twenty-third. October twenty-third, 1991.”

“Yeah,” Eliza breathes out. “You?”

Clarke nods and takes a deep calming breath. This is too much. More than she imagined. A sister, a _twin_. Her eyes rise to meet Eliza’s and she sees an equal amount of surprise and trepidation brimming there. What does one even say? What are you supposed to say when the woman you’ve been impersonating turns out to be your twin? Sorry I’m in love with your fiance, sis? What the hell are you doing here, sis? What the fuck happened to our plan?

Clarke turns away from her parents, who appear to be thoroughly caught in their own orbit, and with an aggravated huff she faces the rest of the room. Lexa stands with her hands tucked into the pockets of her silk trousers. A few feet over, Bellamy gives Clarke a sympathetic look which she cannot bear to witness for too long. And Murphy leans smugly against the door as if he’s enjoying the spectacle. The prick.

“What are you doing here?” This question Clarke directs at Lexa. She means to say it casually with little energy and even less frustration, but her rope has become significantly shorter in the past five minutes and any embarrassment or guilt is completely outweighed by the need for transparency.

“Not happy to see me then?”

“That’s not what I said,” Clarke glowers back at the amused monarch.

Lexa steps forward, a sharp glint in her green eyes. “I am here to see you, _Clarke._ ”

The blonde swallows at the soft utterance of her name. It’s the first time she has heard it from the queen’s lips and the sound of it brings back a flood of memories - their time together and all the ways Clarke had to lie. Panic settles into her gut as she stares back at the queen. The jig is up.

“And?” she manages to breathe out. “What can I do for your majesty?”

Lexa continues to prowl closer, “I can think of a few things. One of which would be a small, but necessary apology for your subterfuge.” 

Clarke tilts her chin up as Lexa stops in front of her, “What if I am not sorry?”

“Oh? How very treasonous of you. Shall I lock you in the dungeon?”

The blonde rolls her eyes, “You don’t have a dungeon, Lexa.”

Warmth spills into those green irises when Clarke calls the queen by name. It wasn’t intentional. The intimate address just sort of… slipped out. Blast it.

“What are you doing here?” Clarke demands again.

Lexa smirks, “You didn’t really think I was going to let you run away, did you?”

Her heart stalls a beat then begins to thump twice as hard. “You’re acting awfully forward for someone who is engaged to be married.”

“Formerly engaged,” Lexa murmurs, stepping close enough that her suit begins to blend into Clarke’s white smock. The blonde’s eyebrows jump up.

“You’re not engaged?” Clarke asks even as her pounding pulse becomes a deafening echo in her ears. Her eyes dart to Eliza’s and the blonde nods as if to say ‘ _it’s the truth_.’

“I’m not engaged,” the queen confirms.

“Why not?”

Lexa shakes her head with a small smile, “Because I am completely in love with someone else.”

Clarke’s eyes widen, “Who?”

Lexa only arches her eyebrows and raises a hand to brush blonde hair out of Clarke’s face. Clarke’s breath catches and her brain begins to spin like a hamster-wheel. Panic explodes through her veins.

“You can’t,” she gasps out, taking a large step back from the queen. “ _You can’t_.”

“I cannot what, Clarke?”

The blonde throws out an arm between them as the queen tries to step closer. Something twists in her chest as she says adamantly, “You can’t be in love with me.”

“According to who?” Lexa asks with a snort.

“I don’t know!” Clarke huffs indignantly, her eyes darting around as if someone else in this insane group of people might agree with her. “What about tradition? Things happen according to plan. Life happens according to _plan_. And this,” Clarke gestures between them fervently, “was not part of the plan.”

Silence holds the room, stretching out so thin that an echoing chorus of breaths can be heard. And through the taut quiet, Clarke watches the small muscles in Lexa’s face ripple as her amusement turns to confusion and then into a painfully blank mask.

Finally, the queen asks coolly, “Are you saying that you are not in love me? Forgive me, I assumed that some—”

Clarke breathes in sharply and steps forward, “No. No, that is _not_ what I’m saying, Lexa. I— I am _wildly_ in love you, more than I ever thought possible, but… we don’t make sense.”

“We make perfect sense, Clarke Griffin,” Lexa swears softly, eyes burning through the blonde. “You make perfect sense to me. I feel closer to you in the span of four days than I have to anyone in my entire life.”

“You don’t mean that. _You can’t_. I’m not a duchess or a princess—”

A lazy drawl from the corner, “Technically, you are—”

“Shut up, Murphy,” Clarke and Lexa growl at the same time.

The blonde turns back to the imposing monarch and says heavily, “I am just a baker from Chicago. That is all I know how to be. And you’re a freaking queen. We don’t make _sense_.”

“I don’t care, Clarke.” The queen’s hands twitch like she might pull Clarke closer, but she doesn’t. Lexa just continues adamantly, “You can still be a baker. We can move your shop here or—or you can open up a new one! I don’t care. I just want to bake cookies with you or watch you bake them— _Merlin_ , I’m not saying this right!” Lexa runs a hand through her honey-brown hair and begins to pace in front of the blonde.

“This is crazy,” Clarke whispers, watching Lexa prowl back and forth. The queen’s composure appears fractured beyond anything Clarke has ever witnessed.

Lexa laughs, a short barking sound, more of an exhale, before she throws her arms wide, “Then let it be crazy! I have never been more certain about anything than I am about you.” Her jade eyes bore into Clarke, piercing through the blonde’s rational thought as easily as sliding a hand through flour. Lexa smiles softly and says, “I think we were meant to find each other.”

Warmth sears Clarke’s lungs as she inhales those words. It spreads along her spine, through her muscles before settling in her eyes. Clarke’s voice is shaky, balanced on the edge of the knife as she tries to protest, tries to cling to some rational thought, “Lexa,” she whispers. “You don’t mean that…”

The monarch freezes, facing Clarke. A tender expression sweeps over Lexa’s features followed swiftly by determination. She shakes her head with a grin and claims the two feet between them before dropping to one knee. Her green eyes blaze up at Clarke and the blonde loses her breath, loses her balance, teeters from the edge of that finely polished knife.

“Clarke Griffin,” Lexa brings their hands together. “If you are still in love with me a year from now, will you marry me? Because I cannot imagine spending another day without you.”

The warmth in Clarke’s eyes drips down her cheeks and she lets out a hiccuping laugh. Her mind cannot fully comprehend these words, it still runs circles around logic and plans and reason. But her heart feels ready to burst from its seams and it is with that surety that she gives Lexa her answer.

_“Yes.”_

**_Backstage, Baking Competition Set, Wembley, Polis - December 25th 2018 - 16:20 CET_ **

A smile spreads across Eliza's face as Lexa stands, drawing Clarke to her and kissing the blonde with fervent dedication for everyone to see. Abby and Marcus cheer from the side where they still hold each other. Even Murphy has a pleasant smile on his face. But Bellamy stands completely still, his body stiff and rigid as he stares at her, not the couple, but Eliza. A dull nagging ache shoots through her stomach as she gazes back at him. Her brows furrow. She doesn’t know what to make of his expression. It hasn’t changed since she placed the ribbon over his head, still an unreadable mask which mars his usually open face.

Her body had gravitated towards him while Lexa and Clarke argued, but now Eliza makes a conscious effort to minimize the distance. Her footsteps falter when his gaze hardens, no longer apathetic, but almost hateful.

“Bellamy—”

He shakes his head roughly, turning towards the door. Eliza makes her legs function, pushing after him despite the emotions boiling through her bones.

“Wait, Bellamy!”

Murphy crosses his arms at the door. “I think it’s best you stay and listen.”

The tall man growls, raking a hand through his hair before turning around slowly. Bellamy rolls his jaw as his dark eyes settle onto Eliza’s.

“Please say something,” she whispers.

He looks past her, “I don’t think you’re going to like what I have to say.”

“Then I’ll start,” Eliza says quickly. Words try to stick in her throat as she swallows. But she needs to say this, needs to get this out. “I don’t know where to begin,” she admits, shrugging nervously. “I never meant for everything to get so complicated. I only wanted to relieve some of the pressure I was feeling.” She tries to ignore the narrowing of his eyes, tries to just barrel forward despite the growing panic in her belly, “To have one _normal_ experience, something easy… I thought it would be easy to spend a few days with you and then go back to my life. But it wasn’t easy. You— you are an amazing person and those four days with you and Madi—”

“Stop,” he hisses sharply, the word exploding from his mouth. Then he breathes in deeply as if to calm himself, chest expanding as his dark eyes penetrate her. “I understand,” he nods, his lips twisting into a painful grimace. “I understand that you used me and my daughter _and_ Clarke in order to fulfill some sort of fantasy you have. I understand that you did this without any regard for how it would affect our lives. I mean, when does a duchess learn about consequence?” His laugh claws at Eliza’s courage, shredding through her with thin, innumerable cuts.

“I understand,” he continues sharply, “that you thought it would be _easy_ to do this, that you never expected to _care_ this much. But that is what happens when you realize the people you are using are _human_ ,” he snarls, disdain dripping from every word that he throws at her. But then he breathes in and his face crumbles and his voice breaks as he whispers the next words, “What I don’t understand, is how you could ingratiate yourself into the life of my nine-year-old daughter. I don’t _know_ you.” He exhales, voice wavering, “You are a _stranger_ to me, but you let me trust you with my daughter like I trust my best friend, a person I have known for over a decade. And I cannot forgive you for that.”

Eliza opens her mouth and tastes salt. Tears she didn't know were falling seep over her lips, coating her tongue. Her heart is withering inside her chest, making a feeble attempt to beat through the raw burning which suffuses her at Bellamy’s rigid expression. His brown eyes remain fixed to hers and the hardest part for Eliza to swallow is the bitter disappointment swimming in those dark depths.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispers then says it again. “I’m sorry.” She shifts forward, but he steps away, effectively keeping the distance between them.

“I don’t want your apology. I don’t want anything from you,” he says finally as if it’s the most simple explanation in the world. And Eliza supposes that it is, in a way, even if her heart refuses to hear it. Bellamy holds her gaze a moment longer as if to let the truth of those words sink in. Then something flickers in those brown eyes and he turns away sharply.

“Get the fuck out of my way,” he snarls at Murphy and after a beat, the man complies.

Eliza can only watch as Bellamy slips through the door, his tall figure disappearing into the hallway beyond. Everything hurts, burns like there’s something dying inside of her. Yet her breath continues, stubborn and obstinate. She tries not to notice the sounds of the people around her, their soft silence, their pity. But the warmth of their gaze on her and the sound of their breathing seems to amplify into a loud roar. She swallows and clears her throat. Her hand wipes at her face. Whether she is trying to brush the tears away or stuff them back in, Eliza is not sure.

“Well,” she laughs sharply, turning. “That went well.”

“I’m sorry,” Clarke murmurs. “I had to tell him the truth.”

Eliza nods blankly as shock settles into her system. It must seem trivial to everyone else, to people with so much life experience — to feel suddenly so empty when you lose something that never really belonged to you in the first place. But she can’t help it. She can’t help that her life has been kept at a safe distance. She has tried. This was her trying. And look how well it turned out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooooooo what did you think?!? What surprised you the most? New chapter tomorrow and then the finale on Christmas Eve xx


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! So this chapter and the finale both have larger time-jumps. This chapter takes place one week later and then the next is a whole year! If I wasn’t trying to finish by Christmas, I probably would have written a _bit_ more for both. But as it is, my main goal was to make sure you guys had a completed story. Maybe I'll write some one-shots later! 
> 
> CW: There are some references to past abuse in this chapter. Though it is more emotional than graphic, please be aware before reading.

**_Logan Square, Chicago, USA - January 1st 2018 - 7:00 PM CST_**  
  
A loud ping echoes through the elevator as the lift grinds to a halt on the fourth floor. The doors slide open and the woman inside steps through. Her gate is purposeful but light and each determined step brings her closer to the end of the hallway. She raps her knuckles three times on the door to apartment 48, then waits with practiced patience.

 _“Just a minute!”_ shouts a deep voice from the other side. A series of footsteps resound dully before the wooden barrier is flung open. Bellamy’s hair is mused to one side and his grey-blue shirt pokes out of a daisy patterned apron that is clearly three sizes too small. His floured hands are raised before him like he is desperately trying to not touch anything. A smile spreads across his face.

“You’re back,” he sighs, pulling the blonde woman inside with his forearms. He shuts the door and then drags the new arrival into a firm hug. “Why didn’t you just let yourself in?”

“It’s… It’s me.”

The words are lilting, a distinctly Arkadian cadence, and Eliza extricates herself from his embrace as she speaks them, knowing what his response will be. Sure enough, Bellamy stiffens and then steps back. His eyes flit over her again as if registering her appearance for the first time — the slim jeans, grey sweater, and short tan boots not _quite_ what Clarke would wear.

“Right,” he clears his throat, cheeks coloring. His hand scratches at the back of his neck and he shakes his head as if to clear some thought before turning away. “Well, uh… do you want something to drink? Water? Tea?” He glances back at her as he walks towards the kitchen, “Whiskey?”

Eliza opens her mouth when he continues to stare, waiting for an answer. This is… unexpected. She lets out a strange laughing exhale then asks, “You’re not going to throw me out?”

Bellamy winces, “I deserve that, I guess.”

She steps forward with a shake of her head. But she doesn’t really know what to say. As much as she may have planned this, Eliza never actually imagined she would make it past the front door. She clears her throat, “Water is fine, thanks.”

He nods, dusting his hands against his apron before removing the article. He fills a glass from the tap and brings it over to her. A muttered _‘thanks’_ leaves her and then the pads of her fingers brush briefly against his. Eliza tries not to notice how quickly he steps away, but her throat tightens. She turns around, pretending to survey the space.

It’s a small, clean apartment. A wall of exposed brick stands behind the living room directly across from the functional open-design kitchen. A narrow hallway leads off, no doubt to the bedrooms.

“It’s not much,” Bellamy mutters gruffly when she faces him again. And Eliza can tell he is uncomfortable with her appraisal. Or maybe he is just uncomfortable with her. “It’s probably not very nice compared to what you’re used to, but for us—”

“It’s perfect,” she assures him.

His lips tug slightly as his eyes slide to hers, “It’s weird to hear your real voice. And also easier… somehow.”

Eliza only nods. A thousand different questions run through her mind: What’s weird? What’s easier? Are you still angry? Have you forgiven me? She takes a sip of water to wash the words from her throat, to keep herself from blurting them out like vomit over the wood floor. Instead, she smiles and asks casually, “Did you have a good New Yea—”

“ELIZA!!” A triumphant shout rings out like a battle cry before Madi runs full-throttle at the woman. She careens into Eliza, wrapping her small hands around the blonde’s waist. The duchess chuckles, lifting her glass in a feeble attempt to keep the water from spilling. A few drops land on the child’s head and Madi shakes them off like a wet dog.

The cup is slipped from her hand and Eliza glances over to see Bellamy set it down. She smiles appreciatively and then bends down to bundle the little girl into a tight hug.

“I missed you,” Madi whispers in her ear.

Eliza grins, “Missed you too, kiddo.”

“Things are boring without you.”

“Hey now!” Bellamy’s indignant tone draws their attention. He leans against the kitchen island, arms crossed, watching them. Madi gives him a look that speaks volumes and Eliza guesses that it might not the first time they’ve had _this_ particular conversation.

“So,” Madi starts, looking back at Eliza. “Are you here to stay?”

“Madi,” her father sighs in exasperation. The blonde duchess straightens, opening her mouth to respond. But, no words come out. Bellamy takes that cue, pushing away from the counter. “Alright, squirt—”

“No! Dad, c’mon.”

“—can you please go to your room?”

“Dad!”

Bellamy gives his daughter a stern look. She scrunches her face and sighs, turning. Then pauses, “Will Eliza still be here when I get back?”

“I don’t know, Madi,” Bellamy admits and the resignation in his voice adds gasoline to the anxious fire brewing within Eliza.

The girl scowls and then points at her father, “She _better_ be.” He has the grace to look completely affronted by his daughter’s command, but Madi stomps down the hallway and slams her door before he can formulate a response.

Eliza’s stomach flips when Bellamy turns to face her; she can almost feel the casual ease of earlier fade as she holds his gaze. There is a watchful sort of clarity in his dark eyes, a kind of measuring observation. The muscles in his jaw twitch and she imagines she can see the gears in his head turning. Eliza swallows and crosses to the kitchen island, picking up her water and sipping firmly at its edge. She’s not even drinking. She’s just stalling, afraid to move beyond this tender truce that now seems to be shattering. His eyebrows begin to rise at the length of her sip.

“Thirsty?”

Eliza blushes and clears her throat. “So, did you have a good New Years?” she asks lightly, turning to set her glass down and pressing her hands against the cool, concrete countertop. Her heart is beating a ragged, thumping rhythm in her chest. She feels like she might throw up, actual vomit this time.

_“Really?”_

She spins to face him, crossing her arms and nodding once. He holds her gaze a moment longer and then shrugs.

“It was fine.”

Eliza bites her cheek, breathing in. She nods, “That’s good. Very good. And… emm… did you—”

“Eliza,” Bellamy sighs and runs a hand through his hair. She watches as some remnants of flour streak through his brown curls. It’s the first time he has actually used her name. _Eliza._ He just stares at her, “Are we really going to do this?”

“What do you mean?”

He shakes his head, “Are we going to talk about everything except what we _should_ be talking about?”

“I’m very good at avoiding things,” Eliza laughs nervously.

“I’ve noticed.”

She smiles weakly and then walks past him to plop down on the couch. “Okay.”

Bellamy quirks an eyebrow at her and then moves slowly to join. He sits in the armchair rather than the sofa and the deliberate distance between them is like a weight at the bottom of her stomach. She clears her throat for the third time, hyper-conscious of his gaze lingering on her face. Eliza stares at the coffee table for a moment. Then squares her shoulders and meets his gaze. “I love you,” she states simply.

Surprise overwhelms the wariness of his features, though whether he is shocked by the fact or the non sequitur Eliza is unsure. She inhales to steady herself and then continues, “I didn’t get the chance to tell you that… the day of the competition, but… I love you, Bellamy. I love Madi. And I— I want you to know that. I want you to know that you were right. I _did_ make a selfish decision. And I _didn’t_ think about the consequences…” His brows furrow and she feels that tightening in her chest, in her throat, as she pushes on, “But I’m not sorry. I can’t be. I— I am more myself than I have ever been. I am about to live my life _for me_ , not for anyone else, and no matter what happens, if you forgive me or if you,” her voice catches, “ _hate_ me for the rest of your life, I am grateful that I got to be with you and Madi because… you taught me that lesson. Both of you.”

Silence stretches out between them and Eliza watches Bellamy’s throat bob as he swallows. His jaw rolls and his eyes fix on the floor between them. He runs a hand through his hair — an action which Eliza is beginning to recognize is a habit. Finally, he sighs.

“I don’t hate you, Eliza.”

“You don’t?”

He grimaces, a pained expression coming over his face. “I’m sorry for how I spoke to you at the competition. I said some really cruel things and… and that’s not the person I want to be. Ever.”

“I know I hurt you—”

“That’s not an excuse,” he shakes his head. “Look, you may think you love me, but the truth is we hardly know each other. I’m flattered, really.” His eyes meet hers again, sincere, apologetic even, and she tries to shove aside the disappointment pooling in her stomach. “There are things you don’t know about me and… they’re not pleasant or easy.”

Eliza holds his gaze for a beat then shifts closer, perching on the edge of the coffee table so that her knees almost knock against his. Bellamy straightens, confused, but she just smiles softly.

“I know that you love your daughter more than anyone in the world,” Eliza admits quietly, gazing at the inch of space dividing their knees. “I know that you are loyal and caring and honest. You are funny in a completely dorky, nerdy sort of way that always makes me laugh.” She watches his Adam's apple slide down his throat again. “I know that you have a very close, but often strained relationship with your sister. I know that you take _way_ too much sugar in your coffee and that true to the American stereotype you prefer espresso to tea.” She breathes in and finally lets her eyes slide up, falling into his wide, dark ones. “I might not know everything about you, Bellamy Blake, but every part of you I _do_ know, I am in love with. And if you want to tell me something… about your past… you can. You can tell me anything.”

He shakes his head, standing. “Eliza—”

“Bellamy,” she follows him up.

“I—” he tugs at his hair again. Without thinking, Eliza reaches up and brushes the specks of flour from his dark curls. His eyes lock onto hers. “You don’t— You’re not Clarke.”

“I know.”

“No,” he shakes his head again, firmly. “Clarke is my best friend— I thought she— I thought it was _her_. I thought _you_ were her.”

It takes a moment for the words to register, for the full impact of what Bellamy is saying to sift through Eliza’s mind. It’s delayed. Like the physical crash of a tree follows the sound of its cracked hull splitting.

“Oh,” Eliza swallows, stepping away from the heat burning in her chest. “You—you’re in love with Clarke… I mean, it makes sense! I guess I just thought that it was _us_ , but… I didn’t see how you two acted together. Before. I didn’t know that you already felt that way for her—” Eliza breathes in sharply, the air wavering in her lungs as another realization hits her. “Oh _god_ , this must be so painful for you. With Lexa. I didn’t even realize—”

He closes his eyes briefly, then gives Eliza a pointed look, “I am _not_ in love with Clarke.”

“You’re not?”

“No, but… she’s my best friend. She knows almost everything about me. Would it be easier with Clarke? Yeah, but—”

“I don’t—” Eliza starts, brows furrowing. “I’m not sure I understand…”

“Look, Eliza, you may know pieces of me, but that’s all they are. _Pieces_. There are things in my past which I don’t like to touch, but… they also make up who I am and I don’t know how to let you in, how to let _anyone_ in, without going back there.”

Eliza steps forward, “I know certain things are hard to discuss, but—”

His expression hardens, “It’s more complicated than that. You can’t understand—”

“At least, I’m trying to!”

“Well, maybe you shouldn’t.”

“ _What?”_ She exhales, indignant at the ease with which he shuts down, closes off, becomes impenetrable. “What is that supposed to mean? Why can’t you just be honest?”

“I have never lied to you.”

“Then tell me how you feel!” Eliza shouts, throwing her arms wide, body close to vibrating. “Tell me how you feel… _about me_. Because, if you say that you don’t care, I will leave. So just tell me,” Eliza’s chest heaves, her voice simmering, heavy. “Tell me how you feel.” 

“I…” Bellamy opens his mouth, jaw working. “I don’t hate you.”

She groans in frustration, “That’s not an answer, Bellamy. Why can’t you just admit it?”

“There’s nothing to admit,” he says firmly, face shuttering, guarded.

“You— Ugh!” She throws her hands up. Her nerves are completely shot. She has felt her heart plummet and soar and race all in the same span of breath. It’s too much.

“Good,” he nods. “This is good. You can just be angry with me and—”

“I’m not angry with you, I’m furious!”

He clenches his jaw and nods again and her indignation spikes at his mute silence. Eliza steps forward, bringing her hands up between them. She means to just gesture, at least that’s her intention, but his eyes flick down and he encircles her wrists before she can lift them very high. It’s not a tight grip. It’s gentle but annoyingly effective.

She laughs hollowly, “Why won’t you just talk to me?”

“I am talking to you,” he sighs.

“No, you’re deflecting. There’s a difference, Bellamy.”

He snorts as she uses his own words against him, “Just leave it be, Eliza. I forgive you. Okay? You can leave and be happy and live your life _for you_.”

“Fuck you,” she hisses back, tears stinging her eyes. “I don’t want your fucking forgiveness, Bellamy. I want you to talk to me. I want you to tell me how you feel without hiding behind some rubbish excuse. I want you—” she inhales a shaky breath. There was more to that sentence, more to what she was going to say, but she can’t remember anymore. Not when his eyes darken, almost pitch black, and the heat of his gaze flicks down to her lips. Eliza sags into him. She doesn’t want to fight. She’s tired of fighting. His hands loosen, sliding along her arms and over her back. Eliza shivers against him then says quietly, “Just tell me. I don’t care what you did.”

He stiffens and then steps back, arms falling to his sides. “There’s no ghost in my closet if that’s what you’re thinking—”

“I don’t know _what_ to think!”

“I didn’t commit a crime or get involved in some shady deal. I just— Fine,” he nods sharply, some emotion passing over his tan face. “ _Fine_. If that’s what you need to leave, then fine. Just… sit on the couch. I’ll be right there.”

Eliza frowns, confusion and dread creating a hedge maze inside of her. She forces her feet to carry her, forces her muscles to relax as she sinks into the cushions of the sofa. Eliza listens to the sound of glass clattering in the kitchen, then the soft echo of footsteps against the wood, until a few moments later Bellamy appears in front of her. He sits on the coffee table, mirroring her earlier position, and sets a large glass bottle beside him. Eliza frowns, glancing up.

“Are you going to drink that?”

Bellamy shakes his head, “No, I’m not… but you are welcome to if you want.” When she doesn’t reach for the alcohol, he picks it up, spinning the label around. His voice drifts from him and even though he is staring at the liquid inside, Eliza knows the words are for her.

“I told you a bit about my dad, but… not everything. He… he was either the best person in the world or the worst. He loved to play games with me and Octavia, board games, make-believe, anything really. He always seemed to have this endless supply of energy… But when he drank,” Bellamy sets the bottle back down, “he was violent and mean and left more bruises on all of us than I care to remember. There were good periods. But they were few and far between and— every time,” his voice rattles, “I saw my mom with another bruise, it felt like I had _failed_ her. She was always telling me to watch out for Octavia. But who was watching out for her?”

He shakes his head, pausing to compose his face, jaw becoming rigid. But the effort is not complete. At moments, his mouth quivers with a persistence that makes Eliza feel sick. Yet his words are quiet when he continues, “The only thing he ever responded to was violence. He only stopped when he was scared. Afraid that he had done so much damage we would finally leave him or simply afraid of someone else. So… I tried to become bigger and stronger than he was. I tried to match his rage with my own. To be some kind of buffer between him and my mom. I was so _angry_. All the time. And when I thought he had died, when my mother did die, I just—” he shrugs his massive shoulders, eyes fixed on the floor.

“There was so much rage inside of me that I didn’t know what to do with. It got better with time and help. Clarke was there for me, convinced me to see a therapist. And meeting Gina shifted a lot of things, but—” He looks up at Eliza and she can see unshed tears in his eyes. “It’s still _here_. It’s always here. Whenever I’m afraid or feel threatened, I have to actively remind myself not to go back there. _That_ is why I shut down at the competition.” He picks up the alcohol again and then hands it to her. Eliza takes it silently.

“I don’t drink,” Bellamy admits. “Not because I’m an alcoholic, but because I am terrified of being like my father. I don’t want to hurt you. Or anyone. I made enough mistakes with Gina before she died and I—” he closes his eyes. “I have Madi now and that’s enough. She’s enough.”

The quiet of the living room is only broken by the soft tick of some clock that Eliza cannot see. Bellamy doesn’t look up. He waits with stiff shoulders as if he is prepared for her to leave. As if his rigid body could take that blow better than his exposed heart.

Eliza slides onto the floor between his knees as the first few tears fall down his cheeks. She runs her hands along his legs and around his back, dragging him towards her. He lets out a ragged breath but doesn’t pull away. His cheek is warm against hers when she finally murmurs, “It’s okay if Madi isn’t enough. It’s okay to want more and it’s _okay_ to be afraid. I’m terrified. My heart is literally sliding out my ass half of the time I’m with you,” she admits, smiling as he chuckles at her crude expression. “I’m petrified of fucking this up. I don’t have nearly enough life experience to form any confident opinion on my own. Unless you ask me about foreign affairs or trade policy. I’m winging almost everything I do and I probably have serious self-esteem issues... But I still want to _try,_ I still want to figure out this crazy world and… I want to do it with you.”

Something shifts in Bellamy’s eyes as he pulls back to look at her. Some disbelief or hesitation slips away. “Are you sure?”

“I’m not going anywhere,” she murmurs. They are almost eye to eye, with her kneeling on the floor and him sitting down. Eliza’s breath hitches as he reaches out to brush blonde hair behind her ear. A throbbing hum seems to flicker to life between them, growing stronger the longer she stares into those dark eyes. She clears her throat softly, “I— I’ve been thinking about buying some real estate here…in Chicago.”

“Oh?” he asks, eyes never wavering from her face.

“It’s a good investment,” she explains.

That hum between them builds until it becomes almost tangible, something she could reach out and touch. His gaze seems to intensify, to hold her captive as he leans forward by fractions, as her breath seeps slowly from her lungs.

“Just KISS her, Dad!” A small shout from the hall rips their gaze away from each other. Madi’s head pokes out from the frame, a grin spread across her face. Bellamy groans, dropping his forehead onto Eliza’s shoulder, his breath brushing against her collarbone.

“What are the chances that she’s been here the whole time?” he whispers into her skin.

Eliza laughs softly, “Very high.”

“Maybe she’s too young to understand?”

“I think that might be a very risky bet.”

 _“Kiss her!”_ Madi’s whisper-shout comes from the other side of the armchair now. Bellamy tilts his head to the ceiling with an exasperated sigh as Eliza laughs into his chest. Then before the duchess can even catch her breath, he bends down and cups her face between his palms. Bellamy opens his mouth against hers, pressing the heat of his tongue to her bottom lip. She gasps into him, shock and something infinitely sweeter pounding through her system, then she rises up to meet the caress, pressing her mouth, her whole body more fully against him.

“Hey! Wow! Too much!” Madi cries, her voice getting louder until her small hands press at the sides of their faces. “My eyes! It burns. My eyes!”

Eliza sits back on her heels, laughter ripping from her as Madi falls between them. The little kid presses her hands to her own face as if she has suddenly gone blind, her mouth open in pretend agony.

Bellamy snorts and bends over to tickle her armpits which sends the little girl shrieking around the coffee table. Madi stops a safe distance away, her face caught between a wide grin and a suspicious glare. But something else catches her attention and her eyes brighten, “Have you told her?”

“Told her what, squirt?”

“About our idea!”

“Not yet, but—” Bellamy laughs as Madi sprints off down the hallway, shouting about being right back. The tall, dark-haired man turns back to Eliza. “It was actually your idea.”

“Really?”

He nods, “But I’ll let her tell you. She might bite off my head if I do it first.”

Eliza grins, imagining the explosive tirade his little hellion could unleash. Bellamy’s expression softens and his hand reaches out again. The duchess swallows thickly as his thumb smooths over her brow.

“I may not know everything about you, Elizabeth Kane,” he echoes softly. “But every part I _do_ know, I am in love with.”

Her heart explodes out of her ribcage and Eliza catches hold of his hand, turning her lips into his palm to press a soft kiss against the skin there. His chest expands and stills, caught on the inhale. And just as Eliza begins to shift towards him, Madi hollers, sliding back into the room with a large poster board. They both groan softly, sharing a sort of despairing, amused look before turning to the excited kid. Madi grins.

“We’re gonna build a restaurant!”

“Not build, squirt,” Bellamy chuckles. “Just _open_.”

“That’s what I said, right?” Madi scoffs at him and lays the board against the armchair. “Dad will cook and I’ll man the cash register.”

“I never agreed to that.”

“You will! And we’re going to get Lincoln, Octavia’s boyfriend, to be the manager. Right, Dad? And maybe even find something for Octavia to do.”

“Other than scare the customers?” Bellamy snorts.

Madi rolls her eyes at him and then looks at Eliza, “What do you want to do? You can have a job too!”

“Oh,” Eliza breathes out, smiling. Her eyes slide back to Bellamy, but he only waits for her response. “Well, are you looking for an investor?”

He is silent for a moment and then says, “Yes, but I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”

“What do you mean? I’ve got more money than I can spend,” she shrugs and then laughs, giving him a pointed look. “Unless you’re afraid of being a kept man?”

Bellamy snorts and leans closer, eyes steady, “Eliza, one day, when you make an honest man out of me, you can spoil me with as much of your exorbitant inheritance as you want… until then I want everything to be clear between us.”

“Oh?”

“I don’t want your money. _I want you._ ”

Warmth radiates from Eliza’s chest, spreading into her throat and cheeks as she stares into those brown eyes. They brim with promise, with a sense of hesitant disbelief, with burgeoning hope. _Hope_. A smile spreads across the duchess’ face as she pitches herself into Bellamy’s arms and presses her lips to his. He kisses her back, holding her face as if it is infinitely precious to him. And that kiss is like snow in sunshine. Like watching it rain from the shelter of a warm cabin. Like the sweet sense of peace and joy and abundance. It’s like finally coming home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was only in Eliza’s POV because it serves as the resolution to her storyline. Chapter 11 will be out tomorrow, Christmas Eve, and is the epilogue (one year later) from Clarke’s POV. Don't miss it ;) So much fluff.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh. My. God. I can't believe I completed this story. I wrote 60K since Thanksgiving and I honestly am hella proud of myself. Thank you guys SOO much for coming along for the ride, especially those of you who left sweet messages of encouragement. Every single word means so much to me. Seriously. I hope you enjoy this fluff-forward conclusion to a humorous and sometimes strangely angsty Christmas story xx

_**The Flame Patisserie, Wembley, Polis - December 25th 2019 - 8:45 CET**_  
  
“Clarke, what are you doing?”

Bellamy leans against the doorway giving her a quizzical, highly intrigued look. The blonde baker freezes mid-action, wooden spoon held erect by the gelatinous cookie dough. She opens her mouth but only air comes out. Her best friend raises one eyebrow and then steps forward with a shake of his head.

“Ummm,” she pauses looking around the workspace. “Just working on the Russian Tea Cookies. You know they have to soak overnight to get the best flavor and then I was going to maybe get a head start on one of the cakes—”

“Clarke,” Bellamy cuts off her tirade with a hand on her shoulder. “You don’t need to be working. Not today.”

The blonde huffs, “But we open in two days and I want everything to be perfect—”

“The Flame has already been featured in the Wembley Review. There’s plenty of ‘good buzz,’ right? Trust me, you’re _golden_ —”

“You don’t understand. I’m basically doing this on my own. What if—”

“Is that really what’s scaring you?”

Clarke’s eyes snap to his, “What do you mean?”

He gives her a pointed look, “It’s your _wedding day_ and instead of getting ready for that, you’re hiding in your new bakery.”

Clarke blushes and tucks her hair behind her ears. It’s longer now, having grown out over the past year, and the blonde locks just barely brush her collarbone. She ignores Bellamy’s stare and turns back to the cookie dough, giving the viscus batter another rough sweep with the spoon.

“Clarke—”

“I’m not hiding,” she snaps, throwing her best friend a scathing look. He returns it, arms crossed.

“I didn’t fly all the way to Polis to _not_ see you dolled up in a frilly white dress.”

“Oh, shut up,” she glowers at him, tempted to throw part of the batter in his face. But she doesn’t particularly feel like having to remake it.

“Come on, Griffin. What’s going on?”

The blonde shakes her head, chewing on her lip before turning to face her friend. “It’s been… what, three months?... since I moved here permanently, and— and what if this is a mistake? What if Lexa realizes she’s marrying a _baker_ —”

“I’m pretty sure she’s aware of that fact.”

“—and changes her mind? Her cabinet thinks I’m just a stupid American bimbo—”

“They didn’t say that, did they?”

“ _No…_ But they didn’t have to! It’s _Titus_. You should see the way he looks at me, Bell. Anya is great. And Indra… But Titus— Arhgh, he is a shriveled, sour prune of a person—” Bellamy lets out a loud snort to which Clarke cries, “It’s not funny!”

He raises his hands, “Sorry. I’m sorry! But… shriveled, sour prune?”

“For your information, I’m trying to curse less,” she says primly, leveling her lofty gaze on him.

“And how is that working for you?”

Clarke throws her head back and groans, “It’s _fucking_ terrible.”

“Then don’t marry her,” he shrugs.

“What? Don’t be ridiculous.”

Bellamy just smirks and leans against the opposite counter. His amused eyes pin her until she finally sighs and flings her hands wide.

“ _I_ know what I’m doing, but… but does Lexa? It’s been three months and what if I snore? What if I fart in my sleep and she—” Bellamy lets out a rough chuckle and Clarke pinches her lips, “Stop laughing! I’m serious.”

“Oh, I can tell,” he assures her, a smile still stretched across his face. Bellamy shakes his head and shifts forward, putting a hand on either of her shoulders. “The only person I’ve met who is _more_ meticulous than you… is Lexa. I’m pretty sure she knows what she’s doing. And… you do snore—” Clarke’s eyes widen, but Bellamy continues quickly, “It’s more of a ‘heavy breathing’ thing so I wouldn’t worry about it. I can’t say whether you fart, but, I mean, she likes you enough to marry you. Surely, that isn’t a deal breaker? Unless… it’s some sort of chronic illness where you hotbox the bed every night in which case you should probably steer clear of any spicy food for the foreseeable future—”

Clarke punches him in the chest and Bellamy winces, laughing. “God, Clarke take a joke.”

“I said _stop_ laughing.”

He rolls his eyes, “Look, it’s normal to be nervous, but you have nothing to worry about, okay? I promise. You may have only been living here for three months, but it’s not like you guys didn’t see each other during the other eight. You’ve been spending two weeks of every month in Polis. Plus, Lexa would have married you after only four days. _You’re_ the one who needed extra time.”

Clarke frowns, “You really think so?”

“Definitely.”

The blonde baker rubs her hands over her face and lets out a long sigh. She looks down at herself and then up at Bellamy with a helpless sort of expression.

“I’m such a mess.”

He laughs, “Good thing your man of honor is so damn smart and knows to make sure you clean up in time.”

“Your ego could break through this roof, Bellamy Blake.”

“It’s only a smidge bigger than yours,” he retorts with a goofy grin.

“Okay, okay,” Clarke nods, glancing once more around the prep room. “Okay, I’m ready. Let’s do this… Wait, where are Madi and Eliza?”

Bellamy jerks his head towards the front of shop, “Waiting in the car. I thought I should—”

A small, deliberate cough sounds from the doorway and the pair turn to see both Madi and Eliza’s heads poking from the frame. Clarke’s sister, her twin, wears a sheepish expression, but Madi appears entirely unapologetic for eavesdropping. The ten-year old's cheeks are still stained red from the cold air and her expression is jubilant. Bellamy shakes his head with a sigh.

“I can’t take you two anywhere.”

Madi sticks out her tongue and then looks at Clarke, “Any cookies?”

The blonde rolls her eyes and points towards a cookie tin under the far counter. The kid skips over as Eliza makes her way towards the pair of adults. Bellamy drags the duchess into his side and kisses her before pulling back to raise his eyebrows.

“We were…” Eliza clears her throat, “ _backup_. Just in case, the perp got too… wily.” She directs the last word at Clarke and then grins wickedly

“Oh?” The baker replies.

“Madi’s been in a cop phase,” her twin shrugs. “Whenever she’s not prancing around in her pointe shoes, she’s arresting me or Bellamy for some ridiculous altercation. She even asked for a pair of handcuffs for Christmas.”

Bellamy chuckles, “We already got some use out of them.”

Clarke groans as Eliza’s cheeks flush prettily, “I did _not_ need to know that.”

Her best friend just laughs harder and then glances down at his watch before informing them that it was time to go. Clarke has ‘places’ to be.

“Ready, squirt?” he calls to his daughter. Madi’s muffled response draws the adults’ attention and they find the kid in the midst of trying to simultaneously stuff two cookies into her mouth.

Eliza pretends to pull out a notepad, “I’m writing you up for a warning, miss. Sugar Overload is a serious offense.”

Madi giggles sharply and then skips out of the shop, at least one more cookie poking out of her pocket. Eliza shifts away from Bellamy to slip her arms through Clarke’s. She looks at her sister fondly and says in a hushed voice. “Ready?”

Clarke swallows, squeezing Eliza’s hand, and then nods. Ready as she’ll ever be.

**_The Palace, Outside of Wembley, Polis - December 25th 2019 - 11:00 CET_ **

“I can’t breathe. It’s too tight. I can’t breathe!” Words spill from Clarke’s mouth as her hands press against her diaphragm. She paces back and forth, her vision only a narrow pinpoint ahead of her. Each jerky movement causes her to slip away from the surrounding people each time they reach forward to help.

“Honey, calm down. Everything’s fine.” Abby’s voice is soothing, convincing. But the stays of Clarke’s dress feel like they are pressing in on her.

Clarke shakes her head, “Did you see how many people are out there? It’s like a million! A billion! I don’t even know, I just—”

“Baby, take a breath,” Abby tries again.

“Come on, Clarke.” It’s Eliza’s voice this time.

The blonde baker just shakes her head, heart thumping wildly. “I mean, why are _so_ many people here? God, I just—”

“Griffin! Stand still for one damn second,” Raven’s strong alto breaks through the panic and then the brunette’s face swims into focus as she grabs ahold of Clarke’s arms. “Hold still, okay?”

Clarke nods and then Raven’s hands are pulling at the back of her dress. Air floods into her lungs.

“Better?”

“Yeah,” Clarke breathes out. So much better. Abby steps forward now, giving Clarke a cautious look.

“Are you alright?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine,” Clarke assures her mother, despite the roiling motion of her stomach. It’s fine. She’ll be fine.

“Baby, if you don’t want to do this, you don’t have—”

Clarke grabs her mother’s hand, “No. I _want_ to do this.”

Abby’s eyes widen at the conviction in her daughter’s voice and she nods, holding Clarke’s hand softly.

“Are you ready then?”

Clarke looks up to find the room staring at her, waiting. Her mother is by her side. Raven and Eliza stand not far off. Madi is munching happily on some carrots by the window, a pink confection in her flower girl dress. Even Bellamy’s sister, Octavia, has made it. Though of those present, she looks the least pleased about the crimson gowns Clarke has forced her bride’s maids into. Abby wears a dark blue dress and Eliza stands alone in a dusky charcoal suit. When Lexa had asked Eliza to be a part of her wedding party, the gesture was so sweet that Clarke could hardly refuse.

“Are you ready?” Raven asks again, giving Clarke a pointed look that is meant to say _‘you better be, because it’s fucking time, Griffin.’_ The blonde lets out a short laugh and steps forward, her pale ivory train trailing behind her.

Eliza knocks on the door and it opens. A soft smile spreads across her face and then she slips through, switching places with a very ostentatious looking Bellamy. Clarke busts out laughing and some of the tension leaves her chest at the sound. His hair is slicked back and his tailored suit is the same crimson color as Raven and Octavia’s dresses.

She grins, “God, it’s worth it just to see you in that get-up.”

“I wouldn’t laugh too hard yet,” he replies smugly. “You’re going to be the one with all the photos.”

“Don’t listen to her. You look _great_ in red,” Raven drawls out.

Bellamy pauses, “I can’t tell if your joking or being serious.”

“That’s part of my charm,” the brunette replies with a smirk.

“Alright,” Octavia’s bored voice cuts the room. “Now that everyone is done flirting with each other, can we get this show on the road? I’m only here for the food and we’ve got at least two hours before lunch.”

Clarke shoots Bellamy’s sister an annoyed glare, but the petite firebrand just shrugs her shoulders as if to say, _‘You invited me. What did you expect?’_ To which Clarke can really only shrug her shoulders back. 

She turns to her mom, locking arms with Abby and says in a voice that is steadier than she feels, “Let’s do this.”

Bellamy holds Madi’s hand and the two of them lead the way with Raven and Octavia close behind. Abby helps Clarke through the door and murmurs about how beautiful she looks as they walk down the hall. The blonde can only nod as her nerves ping-pong around in her abdomen.

It takes longer than Clarke expected for them to leave the castle and circle around to the back of the gardens. An enormous runner of forest green covers the powdery snow and keeps her feet or train from getting wet. She can hear the lilting sound of the orchestra through the pine and giant thuja as they draw closer and even though Clarke steps on thick fabric, she can hear the crunch of snow with each footfall. Her heart beats out of rhythm with the music, too fast for the soft melody. And the pounding only increases when Abby and Clarke round the corner, coming to a halt beside Marcus.

“Hi, dad,” she manages to croak out as he grins down at her.

“You look lovely, Clarke,” her father breathes out, eyes warm. He turns to Abby and though he doesn’t say any words, Clarke can tell that something passes between them. She gives them a moment to be sappy and sweet and… parents. Clarke looks straight ahead at the last stretch of green fabric which forms an aisle through the gardens and to the terrace above. A small figure dots the white stone platform. It’s Lexa. Clarke knows that. But the queen is still too far away for Clarke to see her properly.

The music shifts and, as if on cue, Madi skips towards the castle, tossing white rose petals in a haphazard fashion. Bellamy and Eliza walk slowly up the aisle, a dashing pair in sleek suits of crimson and grey. Octavia and Anya fall into step beside them and then Raven and Murphy follow. Abby kisses Clarke’s cheek and hands her to Marcus. But the Grand Duke shakes his head.

“Abby, _you_ should walk her,” he says softly. “It’s only fair.”

“But, we practiced the other way and I—”

Clarke slips an arm through Abby’s and then through Marcus’ in turn, “I want you both to walk me.”

They nod and fall into place beside her. And it’s only with their help that Clarke manages to move forward. Her feet feel like leaden stones and her mouth tastes dry and bitter from only god knows what. The ping-pongs in her belly have become a sharp pendulum and her breath is only a shallow puff against the frigid air.

Twisted boughs of pine line either side of the green runner, a sharp contrast to the brilliant white powder, and every ten feet a brazier does its best to warm the air. Eventually, the manicured gardens give way to a large clearing before the terrace where at least a thousand stand before their chairs. A thousand eyes all looking at her, all holding their breath as an American baker from Chicago storms the castle to take their queen. The thought causes a hiccuping, nervous laugh to leave Clarke and when her parents both glance down she just shakes her head.

Her ocean eyes turn up once more and this time her breath catches. Clarke is close enough now to make out Lexa’s face from the terrace. The queen stands at the top of the steps, near where she danced with Clarke at the charity gala over a year ago. A wide, happy smile pulls at the corners of Lexa’s mouth and Clarke can feel a similar expression dawn over her own features the longer she stares at her queen. A dark charcoal suit accentuates the curves of Lexa’s body, the places which are soft and round and the ones which Clarke knows hold absolutely zero fat.

The murmur of the crowd fades away until Clarke is no longer aware of the mass of people surrounding her. The beating muscle in her chest thumps a steady rhythm, slowing to keep time with the singing cello. But while her pulse has slowed, Clarke’s steps have quickened. Something drawing her instinctively forward, a string tied to her chest which tugs her closer to the queen with increasing urgency until Clarke is fairly dragging her parents behind her.

The green in Lexa’s eyes darkens from jade to tourmaline as Clarke begins to climb the steps, just twenty between them. Then Ten. Five. _One_. Clarke forces herself to look away as her mother and father press a kiss to each cheek. But her eyes snap back to Lexa before Abby and Marcus have even begun their descent. A hand, Lexa’s hand, reaches out to her and Clarke steps forward, grasping onto those slender fingers.

“You look beautiful,” Lexa whispers in her ear as they turn to stand in front of the priest.

Clarke swallows, eyes dragging over the queen once more, pausing on the honey-brown braid which drapes over one shoulder. “So do you.”

Lexa smiles that soft grin which she reserves only for Clarke and the blonde leans forward, pressing her lips to the queen’s soft mouth. A light cough interrupts Clarke and she pulls back, blushing as the officiant gives her a pointed look. The man’s face becomes placidly neutral at the queen’s raised eyebrows and then he begins to speak to the assembly.

“No dress?” Clarke murmurs to Lexa, eyes sliding sideways.

“Oh, I have one. But it’s for later and definitely not for everyone to see.”

Clarke’s heart stalls and then beats triple time. She bites her lip to keep from asking more questions because now _that_ is all she can think about. She imagines Lexa in a black silk teddy and then in a silver backless dress and then in only a red thong and her mind becomes so distracted that her cheeks feel outrageously warm in the winter air when the officiant finally addresses them.

“Your vows, your majesty. Miss Griffin.”

Lexa’s hands slide into Clarke’s, lacing their fingers together as they turn to face one another. The queen’s eyes are wide, less guarded than Clarke has ever seen them. And an untethered joy mixes with fervent awe as Lexa stares at Clarke.

“I have few words to say other than this,” Lexa’s voice is strong and clear when she speaks. And though her speech is amplified for the rest of the crowd, it feels intimate, meant only for Clarke. “Truth, Love, and Honor. They were ideas, intangible, something I only understood in theory… until I met you.” Lexa’s eyes shimmer in the wintery sunlight and her throat bobs once before she continues almost reverently, “Clarke, you have taught me the importance of truth. Of always speaking the truth that is inside no matter what the consequences. You have taught me to love more deeply than I ever thought possible, to give all of myself and to not see that as a sacrifice. But mostly… you have taught me to honor those around me, to honor myself, to see people as their authentic truth, first and foremost.” Clarke swallows the tightness in her throat as a few tears sting her eyes and fall slowly down her cheeks. Lexa says finally, quietly, “I am grateful for every day we have spent together thus far and every day that is yet to come. _I love you._ ”

Then it’s Clarke’s turn and her stomach somersaults. Her mind panics and nags at her to remember the crowd staring up, to remember all the people listening, to not make a fool of herself. But Clarke keeps her gaze focused on Lexa, on the beautiful sharp planes of the queen’s face, allowing all of those thoughts to disappear.

“Lexa,” she breathes out, staring into that unwavering green. Clarke swallows and admits, “I’ve been trying to think of something profound to say for weeks. I wrote down a million different cheesy lines to tell you how much I love you. I even wrote a poem about your gorgeous green eyes.” The queen chuckles and distantly Clarke registers the muffled laughter of those below.

“It was horrible by the way… which is why I’m not saying it now.” Clarke blushes, shaking her head, “Anyways, nothing I wrote down felt right or true or good enough to express the depth of my feeling. I don’t have something eloquent planned and it’s been driving me crazy because I plan everything. You know that!” Lexa smiles and Clarke lets out a short laugh. “I guess, all this is to say that… my love for you is simple. It doesn’t take enormous words or lengthy speeches to describe. It’s just there. A part of me. A truth. Like a piece of code in my DNA or… or an essential ingredient in baking. That’s how I love you. All of you.”

The queen’s throat bobs and her eyes glisten as she stares at Clarke. An indefinable sense of happiness swells within the blonde baker. Because, she can’t believe how _lucky_ she is. She can’t quite believe she gets to be here, to marry this incredible woman.

“Alexandra Kom Trikru, daughter of Alexander Kom Trikru, son of Arianna Kom Trukru, do you take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife?”

“I do,” Lexa murmurs, her eyes never leaving Clarke.

“And Clarke Michelle Griffin, daughter of Abigail Elizabeth Griffin-Kane, daughter of Elizabeth Marie Clairmont, do you take her majesty to be—”

“I do,” Clarke breathes out and then laughs at her own eagerness. _“I do.”_

“Then by the power vested in me by the sovereign nation of Polis, I present to you Queen Alexandra Kom Trikru and her wife, Princess Clarke Kom Trikru. Your majesty, you may kiss your bride.”

Clarke expects Lexa to lean forward with all the casual grace and restraint of a principled monarch. It’s what would be proper after all. So when the queen surges forward, it is all Clarke can do to keep from gasping. Lexa’s fingers slide into Clarke’s coiffed hair, pulling the blonde’s lips firmly against her own. Clarke’s eyes flutter shut at the sweet pressure. And it like a shower of sparks igniting her eyelids, like a shimmer of starlight pulsing through her blood. More perfect than anything before and a fervent promise of all that is to come.

Clarke’s mouth opens against Lexa’s and she wraps her arms around the queen’s waist, sighing happily against the plush softness of Lexa’s mouth. She can feel Lexa smile against her and only when the queen reluctantly pulls back does Clarke force her languid gaze open.

“Wife,” Lexa murmurs with a smile, so close that Clarke can almost taste the word on her tongue.

The blonde baker grins, heart full to bursting. “Don’t you mean, _your highness_?”

The queen’s face splits into a wide smirk and she pulls Clarke even closer until no space remains between them. Cheers from the crowd ring out and the music below swells to a triumphant pitch. There is probably some form of ceremony which they are supposed to uphold now. A procession back down the aisle, perhaps. But Clarke doesn’t really care. She is perfectly happy where she is. _Here_. In Lexa’s arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The End™ Woohoo!! If you want to follow me on Tumblr you can [here](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/thefutureunseen). I'm open to asks and prompts. I have a lot of extra info for these characters in my head so if there is anything you're curious about, just come on over and send me an ask! 
> 
> _Additional Note:_ I know a lot of you were expecting a bit more explanation about what happened between Abby/Kane. How could Abby leave her husband and daughter like that? I tried to find a natural place in the story, but with the short form structure, I just couldn’t make it fit. Again, if you're curious just hop on over to Tumblr and hit me with your questions. 
> 
> Thanks again for following along!

**Author's Note:**

> Leave a comment! Reviews give me life <3


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